


Winterlight

by auberus, lferion



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Glam Rock RPF, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Bards and Bardship, Drama, Dubious Consent, Fanart, Fanmix, Historical, Horsemen, M/M, Past Lives, Roman Britain, Romance, Slavery, Snow and Ice, Snowed In, Swordfights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-09
Updated: 2011-05-10
Packaged: 2017-10-19 04:39:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 46,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/197000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auberus/pseuds/auberus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Early in 1st Century CE Roman-Britain, Bard Daronwy ap Athaon (Adam) is a treaty/exchange-hostage in the household of Flavius Portius Lucullus, a 300 year old immortal of plebian Roman origin, risen to patrician. Traveling back to Flavius’ estates, they are forced to shelter from the storm at the manor of Anluan Caius Metellus, the current persona of Methos, an immortal well over 3000 years old, who looks to be no more than mid-twenties.</p><p>In the present time, Methos, now Dr. Benjamin Dawson, PhD, goes to a concert ….</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginning Again

**Author's Note:**

> This story would never have gotten written without the patience, encouragement, fact-checking and prodding/cheerleading of Jay Tryfanstone, Morgyn_leri and Athena. The LJ community Write_15 was also of inestimable help, with a special thank you to Idahophoenix.
> 
> Glambini went above and beyond to make all the amazing art. Thank you so, so much.
> 
> In this universe, Adam never met Sauli.
> 
> For those unfamiliar with Highlander and Methos, the [Fanlore page](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Highlander) has a good general introduction. Another good introduction is [ here on Crack_Van](http://crack-van.livejournal.com/4697.html).
> 
> Roman-Britain is a fascinating time and place. I am not even going to try to list all the resources I consulted in writing this, but I will point out the wonderful objects to be found in [ The British Museum](http://www.britishmuseum.org/explore/galleries/europe/room_49_roman_britain.aspx).
> 
> The Hostage-to-peace thing was practiced by the Celtic (and other) tribes, where an exchange would have taken place, one or a pair of people going from each tribe to live with the other. Rome merely took hostages, though they were honored and well treated.
> 
> Bards were as honored and important as I hope I have conveyed here.
> 
>  **About the playlists:** Music was very important in writing this. This link lead to a folder with three zipped folders, each with a playlist that works on it’s own, and is one third of the master playlist. Text files in each folder give the order of both long and short lists. I attempted to make it so if you put all the files together, they will arrange themselves in the right order for the long list. The playlists can also be found in the last chapter.

* * *

  


Los Angeles, CA — 2011

It was not unusual for Methos to see mortals who remind him of others long-dead, even mortals who resembled those he remembered so closely as to be practically indistinguishable. Most of the time, it was merely disconcerting. Most of the time. Then, of course, there were times like this, when there was a total stranger looking out of a face he'd loved beyond distraction, and the pain was almost worse than the pain of not looking at all. Adam Lambert was not Daronwy -- they never were, these dopplegangers from his past -- but he moved with the same deep joy, and the voice that poured from his throat had the same pure clarity, and though Adam's lacked the training that had made Daronwy a Bard, in another age he would have received it and excelled, even as he was excelling with the different demands of the modern world.

There was a bittersweet joy to watching him, unrestrained and unabashedly himself, expanding like a flower basking in the sunshine of the love of the audience, fearless and brilliant in a way that the times had kept Daronwy from achieving — though he'd been fearless and brilliant in his own way — and the pain of his loss still ached in Methos’ heart, especially in midwinter.

Methos stayed for the whole show, rapt and unmoving, watching Adam-not-Daronwy with an tightness in his breast that was more sweet than bitter, and when Adam made his final triumphant bow after singing a song that Daronwy himself could have sung, their eyes met. It was an accident, it must have been, but for just an instant he paused, expression oddly frozen, and Methos could not move as something heart-piercing flashed between them. Then Adam straightened again, and Methos had to close his eyes against the stupid, ridiculous hope that threatened for an agonizing moment. When he opened them, Adam was walking off stage, so he turned and started slowly threading his way through the crowd.

* * *

  


Adam had sung ‘Starlight’ as the second encore. Originally there hadn’t been room in the setlist for one encore, let alone two, but Scarlett and Lee had seen just as well as he had the energy of the crowd and the unfinishedness of it. There _needed_ to be an encore, and when Monte suggested ‘Let’s Dance’ from the Idol Bowie medley, and Scarlett had caught Tommy’s arm and spun him around before sending him practically skipping back on stage, Adam knew how he would finish it. The Bowie was raucous, the whole audience dancing, and then he pulled it all in, all the energy pouring toward him, and sent it back out to the people there with him and in front of him, to the people no doubt watching and listening from far away, the people this performance was raising money for — so much need after the earthquake, the flooding, how could he not help how he could? — the universe itself. He sang the Muse song acoustic, nearly a cappella, Monte accompanying with spare and haunting guitar. The audience listened, rapt and hardly breathing. It was the best and most amazing kind of moment, everyone caught up in the feeling, the energy, the Song.

When the last note (a high one, pure and heart-piercing as the light of a distant star) shimmered into nothing there was a moment of breath-caught silence, swiftly followed with thunderous applause, loud with wonder and delight. Looking out at the audience, the upturned faces in the first rows glittering in the light from the stage, Adam saw new faces and old, people he recognized from other concerts, friends and lovers and strangers, all united in happiness, holding onto the moment. One in particular caught Adam’s attention, a man with a short crop of dark hair, a blade of a nose in a sharp-boned face, and eyes as deep and bright with yearning as the starlight he had just sung.

When their eyes met, Adam knew there was something inexplicably important about him. Something he knew-needed-recognized in that stark, flash-photo moment. Not someone he had ever seen before, and yet Adam _knew_ him. Thought spinning as he bowed and waved and finally nearly skipped off the stage, Adam caught Lane in the wings, even before joining in the after-show free-for-all of hugs. Breathless, he asked, “Lane -- the tall guy, second row center, dark hair, with the nose?”

She was nodding, “Tall, dark and captivated, the tiniest bit out of place in the midst of the front-row regulars, yes?”

“Yes, exactly!” (Heavens he loved her, was glad he had her: the job would be very much harder without her) “Can you try to find him, catch him before he leaves, bring him to the dressing room?” Lane was getting that ‘are you sure about this’ look in her eyes. Adam couldn’t even say himself why it mattered, but it did. “I, it matters. I don’t know why, but it does. Please?” Lane angled an eyebrow at him as Sutan came up from behind and tugged at the tails of his coat preparatory to pulling him away to the dressing room. “Please?” Adam said again.

Lane nodded, “I’ll see what I can do.” Then Adam was saying thank you to her ponytail as she was slipping through the purposeful chaos of the wings toward the door that lead to the front of the house. On a mission.

 

* * *

  


Methos was tempted by the crowd threading their way towards what he had to assume was a meet-and-greet of some type, but he couldn't bear to stand in a crowd of overly-excited men and women about to meet a celebrity when he was remembering a man, flesh and blood and so deeply loved as to cause his heart to ache in memory more than two thousand years later. Having a stranger look at him from Daronwy's eyes was more than even he was willing to torture himself with, especially after that _moment_ earlier.

"Excuse me." A woman's voice, British accented. Methos pulled Benjamin Dawson back over himself like a shield as he turned around.

"Yes?" She was blonde and beautiful, though self-effacing in a way that came from years of being around people the public considered more interesting. Methos' chest tightened painfully yet again.

"Adam would like to see you, backstage." She seemed slightly puzzled, and Methos didn't blame her. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, then nodded, not trusting his voice, before following her back through the crowd and into the maze of backstage.

She knocked gently on the door, and at the muffled 'come in' from inside, opened it. "Well? Go on in."

Methos swallowed hard and did as he was instructed. The door closed behind him, and for a moment he was looking at Daronwy again, two thousand years lifting like a veil from between them.

 _/Adam/_ , he reminded himself. _/Daronwy is dead and gone, and you should leave, and stop torturing yourself./_ But he couldn't, not when Adam was _looking_ at him like that, faintly puzzled.

Adam, not at all sure why he was doing this, but Quite Certain it was the right thing to do, let Sutan help him out of his stage clothes — he’d brought out the Idol Tour jacket, and wasn’t that appropriate — then shooed him away as he got into t-shirt & jeans. Still in that after-performance headspace that sharpened everything, Adam kept coming back to the man in the audience, that _moment_. Remembering to breathe, waiting, until he heard Lane’s knock at the door. And then there he was. Eyes out of a dream, an _energy_. The usual performance-arousal gained an extra layer, fizzed with the same solid familiarity/always new sense that Brad could still inspire. Adam opened his mouth without the faintest idea of what he was going to say.

"I know you," Adam said. It wasn't a question, though it ought to have been. "You like books and beer and horses, and there's a spot right here --" he reached out one finger to touch just below the corner of that sharp jaw, and the man took a shuddering breath -- "that's more sensitive than you wanted even me to know. And I don't know your name. Or how I know that."

Methos took one half-step towards him, unable to stop himself, and Daronwy -- Adam -- curled his hand around the back of Methos' neck, stroked a thumb over the tendon there. It was an utterly familiar gesture, one of Daronwy's, and two thousand years later it still sent desire rushing bright and hungry through Methos' veins. He caught Adam's wrist, but couldn't think of anything to do with it beyond hold it, feeling Adam alive and vital beneath his curled fingers.

"It's not possible," he whispered, even while he wanted it to be possible, more than he'd wanted anything since he'd wanted Alexa to live. "You can't --"

Despite the familiar mundanity of the dressing room — or perhaps it was with the assistance of the familiar magic of the theatre, where things became real because they were made to look and sound and seem real — Adam felt as though the world had come unanchored from space and time. He _knew_ this man, his body, the wry turn of his mouth, the texture of his hair, the tenor of his voice. Adam’s wrist -- the Eye of Horus and the infinity-shape, not finished, a work in progress (and for a flash he can see what the whole sleeve might be, with spirals and dots and other shapes that mean things he can’t quite catch) — recognizes the touch of his fingers, light on the pulse. Adam had never entirely bought the idea of past lives — certainly not enough to forgo the least bit of enjoying this one — but in this moment it seemed much the most likely possibility.

“Know you? Know those things?” Not moving, not wanting to come closer/touch more/pull the man into the enveloping embrace he really really wanted to without more from this man he knew and did not know at all. God. Adam knew the soft, shattered sound he made, coming, but not his _name_ — true-name, use-name, stage-name, anything — or what he did for a living or the love of it, didn’t know what he liked on his pizza — if he even liked pizza — chased with that foamy, gold beer. “But I do. Know them. I don’t know how, but I do.” Adam pulled all the energy, the effervescence still running through him and **asked** , everything focused in eye and breath, because this _mattered_ , “Who **are** you, that you look at me like I’m a ghost, or your heart’s desire, or an enormous threat? I’m not a threat, really.”

"Methos." His name was a prayer, a wish, not to himself, but for himself, that somehow it would stir something in this man in front of him, would pull something from him that was more than a cruel joke, the gods holding something he'd wanted too badly even to hope for in front of him before snatching it away from him again.

Adam mouthed the name, an old name, an ancient name, bells and cymbals and faraway lurs, echoing from Middle Earth and Narnia and the spaces the music came from on the best days. True name. Infinitely precious. Adam turned his wrist to catch Methos’ (true-name, deep-name, but not what he goes by, what he went by) hand in turn, feeling the race of his pulse. Megan had seen ghosts in the Idol Mansion, and Adam had always known there were doorways and spaces and things outside what was called normal perception. What was a stage but another world, a character but another life, however fleeting? “Snow. Lightning. _Starlight_ .” A phrase of the song, a breath. “That … was us? Once upon a time? Lovers, in a past life. That _was_ us. You, and me. A me. Something.” Adam’s fingers traced a spiral in Methos’ palm. He looked back up at green-gold eyes, lit from behind with lightning. “And you remember it, all of it, don’t you?”

"Every second," Methos said softly. He could feel the trail of Adam's fingers like a brand on his skin; could not take his eyes off the man. "But you shouldn't remember anything at all. I shouldn't even be a familiar-looking stranger." He wanted to cling to Adam, to the knowledge in his eyes, lest it vanish entirely. He was almost afraid to blink. "The first time we met, it was all I could do not to simply stand and stare.”

“I’ve never believed that here-and-now is all there is, no past, no future; though I _do_ believe in grabbing the moment. And, this is one of those moments, isn’t it?” _/If I let you walk out of here before we’ve figured out what this is, what it might be, I’ll never see you again, will I? And, that … that’s not in it. I **want** … whatever this is, could be./_ “It was, it is, in the music, in the song. It … connected something.” Adam finally let his arms fold around the man, around Methos, and it felt like coming home to a place he had never been — like a stage, a performance space was home, no matter shape or size or location. It felt _right_. “Did I do the same, when we met then? I bet I did.” It wasn’t — weirdly — odd to say that. (The words conjured an impression — snow and cold and unhappiness that transformed into a happiness/joy/delight that burned bright in all seasons, and so very long ago, a fire that had never died, for all that time had sealed the bright coals in years like ash, banked, not quenched. A fire that was re-emerging from those recesses, those ashes sending out new sparks, finding tinder ready laid. And that metaphor was getting away from him. Adam held Methos without reservation but also ready to let go at any hint of ‘no’ or ‘not now.’) “Do I want to know how long ago that was?”

"I don't know, but I'll tell you if you decide that you do." Methos let himself lean into Adam's embrace, then let himself return it, taking a deep, shuddering breath at how familiar he was to hold, even after two thousand years' distance. He even smelled the same beneath the overlay of modern scents, and when Methos closed his eyes it was as if those twenty centuries had simply melted away.

"When I first met you," he said, speaking into the curve of Daronwy’s shoulder, "you were standing in the courtyard of my house in the middle of a blizzard, and I half-expected you to bring spring in your wake."

“You were a hostage to the peace between the Romans and the Britons, the second generation of noble and high-born scions to serve that honor. In your time, the Romans got much the better of that deal, while the king your father made the best he could of the sulky specimen he got in exchange from one of the neighboring clans. You were a son of his heart and fully trained Bard. The Romans of course would never think of sending their sons to live with barbarians, only to subdue them.”

 

* * *


	2. In the Storm

* * *

Britannia, near present-day Leominster, mid-December early 1st Century CE

Despite three centuries of life, most of which had been spent soldiering for Rome in one part of the world or another, Flavius Portius Lucullus had never learned how to properly judge the weather. He was aware of his own lack of talent in that area, but there was a difference between admitting a weakness to himself and admitting one to anyone else. Flavius hadn't dragged himself from the gutters of Rome to the ranks of her patricians by admitting to weakness, no matter the inconveniences that refusal might cause.

As a result of this intransigence, he and his retinue were still a good three days' journey from the borders of his lands, and four from the warmth and safety of his walls, when the snow began to fall. Flavius cursed and ordered the pace increased. He had been three weeks absent from his own affairs thanks to a summons from the Provincial Governor in Camulodumum, and he badly wanted to be under his own roof before the worst of the winter snows set in for the season.  
   
Inside of an hour, that hope had been dashed. The snow was already two inches deep, and showed no signs of slackening. The skies were a heavy, leaden grey overhead and the wind had increased, while the temperature had dropped precipitately despite the approach of midafternoon. There was no way they would reach his villa before the winter truly began. There was, in fact, no way for them to reach the Vici in which he had planned to shelter that night, even if they took the unacceptable risk of pushing on after dark. One of the members of his party was a hostage, and valuable: the son of a British chieftain, considered a prince by the savages native to the island. His safety was paramount in keeping the peace along Flavius' northern border. They would have to seek shelter, if only for the sake of Daronwy ap Athaon. Flavius had not enjoyed being called to discuss, however delicately and adroitly phrased by the governor, reports of unrest on those borders. Nor had he been happy to be required to bring his ‘princely’ savage with him to meet and speak to not just the men in charge of making and maintaining treaties with other tribes, but the governor himself. They’d even invited him to perform, and seemed to enjoy the noise he made. At this point, more than ‘questions’ would be asked should something happen to the creature.

Scowling furiously, Flavius Portius lifted a hand to signal to his steward. The man kicked his horse into a canter and worked his way up the column of horses and riders until he reached his master's side, pushing back the hood of his cloak so as to be able to hear him over the rush of the wind and the sounds made by a column of riders making their way through open country with no mind to stealth.

"Where is the closest shelter?" Flavius demanded, though he already knew the answer. Ataxas -- his steward was Greek, and a slave, like all of those who served him -- made a show of frowning over the question, but he, too, already knew what he was going to say. He knew also that it would displease his master to hear it, though not why.

"The villa of Anluan Caius Metellus is the closest suitable shelter, my lord. There is a native village perhaps half a mile closer, but none of the houses there would be appropriate."

Flavius scowled even more furiously.  Anluan Caius Metellus was the only other Immortal in the area, and though the two of them had an unspoken truce that had held for nearly five years, he did not relish the idea of seeking shelter beneath his roof; would not have done so, had the weather left him any other choice.  

At least he could be confident in a victory, should the man decide to challenge him. Metellus had barely been Immortal long enough to truly realize that he hadn't begun to age. His father had been possessed of a brilliant reputation among the legions, and there were men still serving who had served beside him before his death in Germany. He was also, despite his greater height, a slender man with no reputation as either a sportsman or a soldier: born into privilege, he'd never been forced to demand anything from his body or from his will. Flavius, though he was several inches shorter and had already reached the far side of forty by the time of his first death, was thick-set with muscle from a mortal lifetime spent doing heavy labor and from an Immortal one spent mastering the art of using a sword. No, young Anluan would present no challenge in a fight, but that did not stop him from being a pretentious half-breed in Flavius’ eyes. He might be rich in lands and patrimony, but he would never be a true Roman.

"Send a rider on ahead to inform him of our arrival, and our numbers," he ordered. "Tell him to emphasize our dependence on his hospitality." According to the traditions of the local tribes, guest-right was sacred, and a man asking for it against a storm could not be turned away. Anluan Metellus would honor it: despite being raised a Roman patrician, he was a mongrel, with a British mother, and had always behaved as such. Flavius had no qualms about using that attitude to his own advantage. Not that he would ever feel any inclination, much less obligation, to do likewise.

Ataxas nodded, and spurred his horse back down the column of riders until he found the man he was looking for. Flavius Lucullus watched the messenger gallop up the next hill and vanish from sight at the crest, then set his shoulders and leaned into the thickly-falling snow.

* * *

Even for the season, the storm was unusually harsh, especially as the dark moon was not yet over, the Longest Night still some days away. Daronwy ap Athaon, bard and son of bards, prince of his people, and hostage to their good behavior, pushed the defiantly woad-blue lock of hair out of his eyes with cold fingers, the felted wool mitts too thin for the weather. At least the hooded cloak his mother had made him was stout and warm still, despite the years it had had to serve him. Flavius Lucullus had been grumbling and even shorter tempered than usual, as if the early snow were a personal affront. The Roman respected the weather even less than he did the alliances and understandings that kept the Cymri, Silures and Dobuni, the Iceni and every other people of the Isles prosperous and at peace. Under his breath, Daronwy sang one of the Songs of Snow, careful to let no note reach beyond the edge of his hood. Lucullus did not like him singing except at his direct order, and Daronwy’s spirit still bore the marks of that displeasure, even though his back did not. But the snow was a gift, even as the sun and rain and wind, to be honored and acknowledged in both its beauty and strength. He was not a court-musician, to be commanded to play or be silent at whim, but a Bard: a sacred calling, with needs and demands of its own.

His mare plodded, head down in her place in the line, and Daronwy noticed as Ataxas called Cleon the messenger-scout out of the column. He kept his song silent as both went by, dark Cleon away and over the hill, Ataxas the Greek back to ride in Flavius’ wake. The words were clear in Daronwy’s mind, the notes pure as the whirling flakes, if only in his own ears. The spirits would hear, and know.

* * *

Anluan Caius Metellus, son of a Roman patrician and officer and of the British princess he'd captured, loved, married, and mourned, turned away from the window through which he'd been watching the wind and snow howl around his snugly-built manor and smiled politely at the drenched slave who stood chilled and dripping in the doorway of his study,

"Tell Flavius Lucullus that he and his are welcome to shelter here until the storm passes. I will send a man with you to guide you the shorter way." Despite his personal opinion of Lucullus, Anluan would not leave the man to freeze to death, especially as he had a retinue of some fifteen others with him, most of them slaves and therefore beholden to their master's idiocy.

His own slaves were perhaps better treated than most: certainly they were decently fed, appropriately clothed, and well-housed -- not because Anluan was particularly disposed to humanitarian gestures, but because Anluan was only one facet of the man who used that name. There were still Immortals in the world -- though not many -- who would have recognized the sharp-featured, ostensibly young man, and been able to give him his true name: Methos, the five thousand year old myth who remembered when the world was young. While Anluan had never known hardship, Methos had been -- among other things -- a slave, and more than once. Nevertheless, the soft treatment he gave his own slaves did not stem from any kind of sentiment. Cruelty was wasteful: slaves who were well-treated were more efficient, and far less likely to revolt against their masters.

The messenger bowed again and retreated, while Anluan summoned his steward and gave the necessary orders. Elisedd would go as guide. Lucullus himself would be given the empty women's wing, along with those servants he required to be near him. Lucullus' bard would go into the second bedroom, directly across from Anluan's own, in the other wing. Those of his slaves that didn't fit in the women's quarters could be housed wherever they would fit.

Dismissing his steward, Anluan returned to his interrupted writing until one of the boys came to tell him the party of travelers had passed through the village and were approaching the palisade. Then Anluan pulled on both cloak and sword, and went out into the courtyard to meet his guests, a small army of slaves following behind him to assist in the stabling of horses and the removal of winter clothing. The first riders were just coming in through the gates as he stepped through his doorway, and he summoned a welcoming smile as the first tingle of Lucullus' presence grated along his nerves.

* * *

The light was fading rapidly toward night, and the wind picking up as Cleon returned to the road with one of Metellus’ men. The other man wore a good cloak of two colors, though the storm made it hard to tell precisely what they were. He sat his horse well, and presently the column was following him at a faster pace than they had made before. Obviously they would not be staying in the traveler’s shelter this night, but a hall, likely that of Lunedd’s son by the hawk-nosed Roman she had chosen, a willing hostage-bride, honored and cherished. It would be well worth seeing the household of one who knew proper honor and respect, not just the Roman form of it.

The column turned off the increasingly difficult main track quite soon after that, a stiff coppice of holly and yew marking the fork in the road. The holly berries glowed red in the low light, and there was a subtle shift in the note of the wind as they rode under the dark green branches. This fold in the hills was more thickly wooded than Flavius’ lands, and at least one oak bore a mistletoe crown. Daronwy’s heart lifted at the sight, and straightened on his horse, drawing himself up to his full height as they passed sturdy animal pens and open grazing runs where Flavius had walled and enclosed fields. Soon after they were riding through a cluster neatly thatched roundhouses, and could see the well maintained and manned palisade that surrounded the villa and outbuildings. The house was a grand one, built of plastered brick and tile after the Roman fashion, but with an eye to how everything fit into the surroundings, all lit with interestingly latticed iron fire-pots suspended on tall narrow tripods. It was a remarkably harmonious blend of Briton & Roman style and construction.

Daronwy was so taken with the sense of comfort and unlooked for familiarity that it was a moment before he properly noticed the man waiting for them in the dubious shelter of the shallow steps leading up to the main door of the house. He was tall, slender as a deer-hound, with a noble nose and a quantity of short, dark hair that only served to emphasize the sharp, beautiful bones of his face. His eyes were dark as he watched them come into the courtyard and dismount, his men quiet and efficient as they took the horses heads to lead them to shelter. The surrounding buildings cut the wind, though the snow was coming down thickly. He had an air of authority that was as natural to him as breath, and no apparent need to show it off.

Unaccountably, Flavius’ cheeks were red, his mouth pressed closed with what Daronwy recognized as suppressed dislike and the beginning of anger that could easily grow to fury. Daronwy could not imagine what it was in the welcoming form of their host that inspired such hostility. He felt entirely welcomed and at home here. On impulse, Daronwy pulled off his mitt and cupped his fingers to catch a handful of falling snow, the storm-song clear in his head. Perhaps they would not have to continue on in the morning.

* * *

Even to Flavius' critical and disapproving eye, the holding of Anluan Caius Metellus was both snug and prosperous. The British-style outbuildings provided an unfortunate note, but they were well-kempt, and the villa itself was a masterpiece of design. The slender figure waiting at the front door matched it for elegance, and despite his casual manner of dress, his clothing was expertly woven, beautifully dyed and clearly expensive. His impeccably neat garb made Flavius extremely conscious of his own unshaven face and travel-stained garments.

"Flavius Portius Lucullus," Metellus said formally, "your presence is always welcome in my home." He was smiling faintly as he came forward to offer Flavius his hand. "I hope you will find it a sanctuary, as removed from the cares of the world as a temple."

It was heavy-handed but got his message across, and Flavius relaxed slightly, though the arrogance of the boy's phrasing grated. "I thank you for the shelter of your roof," he said anyway, accepting the offered hand. He wasn't offended enough to want to challenge the bastard over it. Despite his breeding, what mattered to the Empire's better families was the name of Anluan Metellus' father -- and that father had saved the Emperor's life once, when they were both young. If he killed the insolent son of a bitch, it would cause him all kinds of trouble -- perhaps enough to necessitate changing his identity -- so he bit his tongue and smiled instead of spitting at Metellus' feet - or in his face.

To Flavius' surprise, rather than inviting him immediately in out of the cold, Metellus turned next to offer his hand to Flavius’ barbarian hostage, with the same calm respect he'd shown Flavius himself -- and perhaps a touch more warmth, which offended Flavius even more than his earlier arrogance."I'm Anluan Caius Metellus -- and you must be Daronwy ap Athaon," he said, with a cool glance at Flavius that reminded him more effectively than a slap that he had been rude not to make the introductions himself. "Lucullus' man told me he had a bard as hostage," he continued, smiling for the first time since their arrival. "It will be a rare pleasure to hear a true singer again." While he was standing next to Daronwy, his British heritage was even more obvious than it usually was. Flavius had to suppress a sneer.

Metellus' steward stepped up and murmured something into his master's ear, and Metellus nodded. "I'm informed that all is ready for you. Please; come inside. Lucullus, I've made the women's quarters available to you." As there were none in the house save for the slaves, that was an honor rather than an insult. Flavius knew he would be more comfortable there than anywhere else, and that he would have his attendants to hand. He nodded his thanks to Metellus and followed after the steward, his personal slaves trailing in his wake.

* * *

Anluan watched him go, taking care to keep his expression neutral, before he turned back to Daronwy, smiling."I also have a guest room that has been prepared for you to use. I would be honored to show you where it is -- and also to put my own bath at your disposal, since Flavius Lucullus will almost certainly be occupying the other."

Good manners alone prevented him from offering to share that bath. Daronwy tempted every part of him, including those facets of his self which he locked away even in private lest he slip up and expose them in public. The bard was well-build, taller even than Anluan himself, his dark hair blue-streaked with woad, and the markings on his face served to accentuate the extraordinary beauty of his features.

His eyes were his most compelling feature, long-lashed and at first glance, blue. At second, and third, they showed hints of green and even grey, promising to shift with the light and with their owner's mood. Their expression revealed the intelligence and quick perceptiveness of the mind behind them, and that depth was even more tempting than the lush curve of Daronwy's lower lip, both to Anluan and to the man that Anluan pretended that he wasn't.

As they made their way through the hall to the further wing together, it became harder to remember that Anluan was supposed to be as real as he was; more so, even. Daronwy seemed to pull his true self closer to the surface by sheer proximity, an ability that was as intoxicating as it was disturbing. Even sticking a metaphorical pinky out from behind Anluan's mask was a giddy freedom. _/ I could be myself with this man,/ he thought; then, /I should be myself with this man./_

"It really will be a pleasure to hear you perform," he said, and was glad to hear the words come out as he'd intended. He's been half afraid that he would say something else entirely. _/My name is Methos, and I am so old as to be a myth to my own kind, to men and women who have themselves lived for thousands of years. I am older than Troy, and Babylon, and Damascus, and I have never seen your equal./_ It was always like that for him: always immediate, always overwhelming. There had been Rivkah and Tomas, Olivia and Caius, whose name he wore, and a hundred others equally as dear, as vividly remembered, despite the intervening decades, or centuries, or even millenia. And there had been Kronos, too. It had taken him more than a thousand years to undo the effects of that first glance -- but even that heartache couldn't stop him from falling again, his whole heart surrendered in the space of a look. He was grateful for the narrow passage, and for the time it gave him to compose himself.

* * *


	3. Revelations

* * *

"When I first met you," Methos said, speaking into the curve of Daronwy’s shoulder, "you were standing in the courtyard of my house in the middle of a blizzard, and I half-expected you to bring spring in your wake."

Adam was deeply, startlingly touched by Methos’ quiet words. There was a trust there, a connection, a _love_ that beggared description, definition, and he found himself moved to return it, to discover more of this unexpected, entirely unlooked for gift, this man. “I like spring,” Adam murmured, almost nonsense but wanting, needing to say something, to keep the connection of word and breath and thought going, even as their bodies fit together effortlessly. “I want… I want to know. About you. About us. I’d like …” this was the stepping off the precipice part, the throwing it all down on the stage like he had every week on Idol, but never more than with Black and White. He was going to have to go and be the result of that daring, that doing, in a few more minutes, but this mattered too, this mattered _now_. He would make the time for now to happen. “I’d like there to be an us. Somehow. Whatever that us might be.”

Methos had to close his eyes against the force of it, the hope and joy and desire threatening to bubble over in his chest, and the dark streak of fear running through it -- that this couldn't be real, that he couldn't _have_ this.

"You don't know anything about me," he said, trying to bring some sort of sense, some sort of adherence to the real world back into this conversation. It didn't help. He was still clinging to Adam, to Daronwy, to a body he'd known as well as his own, once, and had already delivered into the earth along with a piece of his own soul. "I buried you two thousand years ago, and I've lived every day since with the loss. You don't know _what_ I am, much less who, despite the little pieces that you're carrying around somehow." Daronwy had accepted all of him, from whore to Horseman, and keeping all of that from him this time would be agony. Sharing it and watching the amazed wonder in his eyes turn to revulsion would be worse.

 _/Two thousand years?/_ Adam felt the bindi between his brows pinch as that number tried to fit next to an ordinary understanding of the world in his head. It didn’t fit, and first he tried out the idea than he hadn’t heard correctly, and then the thought that there was some other way of interpreting ‘two thousand years’, but presently it was the understanding that shifted, not the number. He somehow could not, did not doubt that Methos was that old — older even, by some unknown, unfathomable count. The sheer wonder and amazement of it swelled like a balloon in his chest, tightened his throat, threatening to overwhelm him. There really, really were more things in heaven and earth than even Hollywood acknowledged. Adam took a breath (two thousand years! Really, what the actual fuck? Y2K and all that in a _person_ ) and tried to think through the incredulity and astonished certainty. What did he know? As soon as he framed the question in that tiny still moment he found there were things he knew. Important things.

“No, I do know some things,” Adam said quietly into the dark, short hair that brushed his cheek. There was going to be glitter there, tiny stars of light. “I know you are a person, that love matters to you, that music touches you, that you care about people. That you loved and were loved by a person that was enough of me that we are standing here in this dressing room in the middle of LA talking about it.” Adam curled his hand to cup the base of Methos’ skull, to cradle it as he had cradled tiny Riff’s head (and how could two thousand years be more amazing than a baby? His god-baby, Lee and Scarlett’s son) earlier that day. The life, the light, it was the same. That was what mattered. The love, however expressed. “I know that the person I am today isn’t that man you loved, but you, today, aren’t the man who loved him, either, not entirely. The world was different then, had to have been. I’m not saying what or who or how doesn’t matter, that it won’t matter, but that goes both ways, doesn’t it? Isn’t it worth it to go for it, if you want it, than walk away? I don’t want to walk away, not yet. I don’t want you to walk away, not out of fear.”

Methos' head fell forward onto Adam's shoulder, his hands clenching and unclenching in the back of his shirt. How long had he been losing people, mortal and Immortal? And in all of that time, none of them had ever -- he had never -- He was so afraid, that reaching for this would cause it to dissolve: that his hands were too bloodstained to hold something so precious. "You have somewhere to be," he said awkwardly, but without lifting his head or relaxing his grip.

“I do, but not this second.” Adam flicked a glance at the clock in the corner. It hadn’t even been half an hour yet, despite what it might feel like. There was time. “And the party’s going to go for a while. This is where I’m supposed to be right now.” Holding Methos, as amazing and unexpected and beautiful as Riff, and in this moment he seemed as paradoxically fragile and tenaciously alive. Adam rocked just an inch, a heartbeat-rhythm, back and forth, and noted that Methos’ hands were if anything holding on harder than before. He didn’t want to let go. Adam didn’t either. Not yet. “Lane will knock when it’s all set up, and they’ll wait. It’s not like we have to be out and on a bus at midnight, glass slippers and all.” The actual words were less important than what he was saying with them. _/If there were a bus, would Methos come with him?/_ “They’ll wait,” Adam repeated, with a little laugh, still kind of amazed at that fact, and then asked, simply, “Will you? Will you wait long enough to give this a chance?”

It was stupid, beyond stupid. Not only to go chasing after a love two thousand years gone -- Methos had done stupid things for love before, knew he would again -- but to chase this one. Adam wasn't Daronwy, and though he was every bit as much the beloved prince this time around, that meant something very different in the twenty-first century. One photograph, carelessly snapped, carelessly published, could expose his carefully-hidden existence to any number of enemies. Except -- except. He'd lost more loves than he could count, though he still remembered every one of their faces, and none of them, not one, had ever come back to him. He pulled back slightly, so that he could see Adam's face.

"I'll wait," he said, and had to close his eyes again, resting his forehead against Adam's. "You came back to me. Of course I'll wait."

“Thank you,” Adam said, hope and awe and relief and astonishment all unfurling in his heart, catching his throat. He blinked against the sting in his eyes, glad he was wearing the waterproof stuff. He _didn’t_ have time to touch it up, and … these were his feelings, his and Methos’, not the crowd’s. “Thank you.” As if remembering the fans invoked them, Lane knocked at the door, the ‘they’re ready for you’ tappetty-tap. (Not, thank goodness, the ‘they’re waiting/car’s here/tight schedule’ sharp rap.) Adam tightened his arms and let his forehead rest against Methos’ for a moment, then stepped back, though he didn’t entirely let go.

“Be right there!” Adam called out over Methos’ shoulder. Then he looked at Methos with intense focus, as if committing what he saw to heart, before smiling suddenly and sweetly. (A smile few people got to see, for all that there were cameras everywhere — the shy smile, vulnerable, private, intimate without any assumption, completely from the heart.) “And then I’ll come back. You can stay here if you want.” He waved his hand at the end of the counter. “There’s water and fruit and stuff, or the greenroom that you passed if you want to talk to people.” Now he did step back, glance in the mirror to check the state of hair and paint - all good - and grab the linen jacket from the hanger, before his eyes returned to Methos’ like magnets and he leaned in for another hug. “Methos,” said, deliberate, intentional. A promise. “I’ll come back,” he said again, “and we’ll go from there.”

With a quick, deep breath, Adam centered himself, feeling the spark that had kindled the moment their eyes had met from the stage warm under his breastbone, and drew the love and energy and amazingness of it around him like a cloak, bringing up the public face, which never hid but only warded and gave space for the private face, still him, clear glass not hardened steel. He was just about to open the door when he turned and asked, “What name should I give Lane?”

For a moment, Methos couldn't remember what name he was using. "Benjamin," he finally managed. "Benjamin Dawson." Adam vanished again, then reappeared.

"When she comes back," he said, "tell her what you like on your pizza." And then he was gone again, leaving Methos to sink down onto the couch and bury his face in his shaking hands. If he had any sense, he would leave now and never look back. If he'd had any sense, he'd never have come in the first place. He'd given his name to a mortal he'd never met before, was letting himself believe, letting himself hope -- it was insane. And he'd given Adam the alias he lived under, with no hesitation, as easily as he'd given up a name he'd kept secret for centuries. "I must be going mad," he says. "Or senile."

* * *


	4. In Anluan’s Hall

* * *

Daronwy followed Anluan down the hallway, breathing oddly freer than he felt he had in years. There was a spark, a fire, an energy to Anluan that Daronwy had never before encountered, and it was separate from the immediate physical attraction he felt for the man. With Anluan he remembered with joy that he was a bard and prince of his people, with gifts and purpose. With Flavius he hardly dared call that to mind, lest he misuse those gifts and dishonor that purpose. Singing for the governor and speaking with his men had hardly been different, always under Flavius’ cold eye and disapproving frown. The songs of course had all been latin, formal and stilted, though he had enjoyed being able to use his voice as it was meant to be used. Daronwy’s hand was cold with the little lump of snow he had caught, and he wanted, fiercely, to stay here, to learn more of this man whose spirit rang like a bard’s, a king’s, a high druid’s.

Impulsively he asked, the first words he had actually spoken in hours, “May I sing for you now? Sing up the storm that surrounds us? If you are willing that Lucullus be under your roof some days, that is.” It seemed important that he have some kind of leave, whether Anluan entirely understood what he was saying or not. “If no, I can just sing it merely as it is.”

"If it were a matter of entertaining Flavius Lucullus for the next few days, I'd beg you to bring back the sun," Anluan admitted. "For the sake of your company, however, I'll tolerate him until springtime, and gladly." He pushed open the door to Daronwy's room and stepped inside to hold it open.

The room itself, like the rest of the house, owed its decoration as much to Methos' tastes and history as to Anluan's. The chill of the tile floor was warded off with thickly woven carpets from Smyrna, and the walls were hung with richly-colored silks that served much the same purpose. The furniture, elegantly and simply made from dark wood as richly-colored as the silks on the walls, were a luxury so far from Rome, but here looked entirely fitting and right. Bed, chairs, and tables had been made by the same craftsman, as had the game-board and pieces on the table by the fireplace. The rest of the room's decorations came from a variety of times and places, and had been chosen by Methos for no better reason than that he liked them.

Before Daronwy and the rest had arrived, the bedding had been aired and freshly-laundered linens put into place by one of the household slaves. A fire had also been laid in the hearth, to take the winter chill out of a room that had not been used since the fall. The wood used to make it had been chosen for the fragrance it gave off when burned, so as to rid the guest room of the faint smell that seemed to cling to chambers that were used only infrequently. It was not a Roman habit, but Methos found it worth the risk of a few questions. Thus far, no one had asked.

“The household baths are near the kitchens, but I have a private calidarium on this corridor, should wish more privacy.” Having a second bath in a house, even one as large as his, was a great luxury, but he did not begrudge the talk. The area boasted a hot-spring, in addition to a stream fed by a cold-spring. He had built the house here deliberately to take advantage of it, laying the best of Roman engineering, with hypocausts and cisterns and the suite of baths. Even in a storm such as this one promised to be, the house would be warm, with the rooms in his wing - the original chieftain’s hall - also boasting hearths.

"You're welcome to use it," he continued, "and I'll be happy to show you how it works." That was a task he would usually have left to a slave, but in this instance preferred to do himself. "If you need anything at all during your stay, just let me know -- or, if you can't find me, ask one of the slaves; they'll provide you with anything you ask them for."

Anluan's smile -- in this situation, anyway -- was shy, almost tentative. The assurance he'd shown in front of Flavius Lucullus was nowhere to be seen -- and Methos found that he was actually rather uncertain himself. Habit dictated that he stay safely hidden behind Anluan -- that he be Anluan, to whom Methos was nothing more than an old legend -- and it would be easy enough to maintain that fiction, if not as easy as it usually was. That was the crux of the matter. He wanted to let that fiction lapse, at least in Daronwy's company -- not to tell him everything, or even anything, really -- but to be the man he was, rather than the Roman stripling he'd become to hide him.

"If you'd rather bathe, or at least warm yourself before singing, I understand. I'd not have my eagerness to hear you cause me to fail in my duties as your host." Anluan's British mother was a fiction too, but Methos had spent more than one lifetime living with Daronwy's people. He'd never had the voice to be a bard, but he'd studied the lore, and knew their customs and language as well as those of the Romans among whom he lived. It was that language in which he spoke next, the rhythms of it coming back to him easily. "I'm aware of the honor you do me by coming beneath my roof, and by agreeing to display your talent for my poor household," he said, closing the heavy wooden door as Daronwy stepped into the room from the hallway.

“‘Twill be both my honor and right to sing for you, public or private,” Daronwy replied in the same tongue, the words liquid and easy. If he was going to Sing the storm, he would need to do it now, while he still felt it, icy and immediate, before he was thoroughly seduced into the warm present by the welcome fire in the hearth and the heat of the man who had seen it lit. Daronwy breathed deeply, reaching for places he had shuttered tight against the chill of Lucullus’ ignorance and disdain. He let the warmth in his right hand balance against the snow-cold in his left as he stepped over to the deep, narrow window, finding the still place inside, reaching out to the heart of the whirling, capricious storm. He breathed out and in again, and Sang.

Daronwy sang the ice-crystals, spinning in the wind, dancing and whirling amongst each other, patterns precise and wild, still and tumultuous. He sang the wind, the breadth and width and exultation of us, combing the clouds through the hawthorn and hazel, thorn and oak and ash all buffeted and kissed. He sang the water in the snowflakes, the seeds asleep under the frozen earth, the blanketing drifts. He sang the pivot-point, the Moment, the still-and-moving center of the storm as the snow melted in his fingers, making it welcome as he had been welcomed, rejoicing in it’s wild strength and cold beauty, asking that it bide in this place a while.

There was a world of difference between a minstrel's singing and a bard's Song, and Methos, who had not heard the latter in more than fifty years, stood transfixed from the first note. He could hear the storm in Daronwy's Song: the tug of icy wind, the howl of it over the ground, the snow whipped along with it through the shrieking air. The momentum of it built with every note, growing darker and wilder in the wake of Daronwy's voice, until the crescendo rang with the sort of power that rendered men and Immortals alike helpless in the face of it. Finally, that wild crescendo peaked, crashed, and the fury of the storm became the steady, quiet fall of snow, the world in white like a minor key, soft and inevitable and overwhelming, until the first high, clear notes told of the sun breaking through: of the inevitable victory of light.

When Daronwy opened his eyes again, after the last note whirled off, pure and high into the already thickening snow, he did not know how to read what was in Anluan's expression, but his eyes were as deep and still and wild as the well of the soul of the world, from which the music had been drawn.

"Thank you," Anluan said softly. His eyes were luminous, and despite his short hair and Roman clothing he was for a moment entirely British.

In that moment, with the music still echoing in his ears, vibrating in his throat, Daronwy saw Anluan stripped of all outward seeming by the force of the song, and even so there were layers to him, like sheets of mica, the furled leaves of a leek, the gleaming depths of still water in sunlight. He was young and old at once, leaf and blade, birch and elder, summer-king and winter.

His beauty smote Daronwy to the very heart — and not just his heart: singing often aroused Daronwy, singing fully engaged in the song always left him hard, his flesh humming with the force of the music; singing for someone who responded to the song was an ecstasy that encompassed every part of him. That Anluan was a man slender and lithe, upright and honorable, outwardly attractive had been enough to spark Daronwy’s interest. The compelling beauty of his spirit sealed it.

Daronwy had to swallow before he could speak again, grateful for once for the shapelessness of his tunic, the enveloping thickness of his frieze trews. He was suddenly, unaccountably almost bashful. Anluan was one of the Powers, god-born, god-touched, whether he knew it or not, lesser or greater it hardly mattered. Even a prince, a bard, might be forgiven for awe. The knowledge did not lessen his desire in the least. “Thank _you_ ,” he finally managed, “for Listening. For asking.”

"It was my pleasure." They were still speaking in Daronwy's native tongue, Anluan seeming unwilling to risk losing any nuance of Daronwy's words, or to risk being understood less than fully himself. His hand half-lifted, then fell back to his side.

Daronwy’s glance tracked the movement of Anluan’s hand, and he noticed how fine and long his fingers were, ornamented with rings that set them off. The stones flashed violet and silver-blue in the firelight. Moonstone and amethyst, protection and wisdom set in gold. His nails were close-trimmed and clean. Daronwy was abruptly aware of the grime of travel, the chafe of clothes too long worn unaired, unbrushed, unwashed. His very scalp itched. “A bath, you said.” Roman baths were one thing he did appreciate: more dependable than lakes and streams and springs, and much more reliably warm. “And you ‘happy to show how it works.’ I would like that, very much,” he said softly, eyes warm, body warmer. He would like to share a bath with Anluan — Roman tile or wooded spring, snow-melt chill or fire-warmed — but now was not the time. Not a simple thing to sport or lie with such a one as he, not an act without consequence.

Anluan smiled, a wry quirk of finely drawn lips, a warmth that matched what Daronwy felt in his breast, knew shown in his eyes, and echoed in his voice. "In that case," Anluan said, his own voice as soft as Daronwy's, "I'd be glad to fufull my earlier promise." Daronwy wondered if he felt the same reluctance at the idea of letting Daronwy out of his sight so soon after discovering him as Daronwy himself did. It seemed likely, given the brief cloud that passed over Anluan’s face. Daronwy told himself sternly to stop imagining things, seeing what he wanted rather than what was most likely there.

Still faintly smiling, Anluan opened the door and gestured Daronwy through it after he had shed his wet cloak and spread it near the fire to dry. The way to the bathing chamber was short, the room bright with another fresh-laid fire in the hearth and two oil-lamps hung from brackets in the corners. A tub that could easily hold a hand of people was sunk in the middle of the floor with the rim raised to a comfortable height for sitting, the whole tiled in blue and green. A sinuous line of black more Celtic than Roman wound about the edge, along the steps leading down, and around the inner ledge in a spiral that ended in a glyph in the center, marking the drain-hole. Anluan worked the levers and wheels amidst the wood-and-copper pipes that jutted from the wall and belled out to pour like a fountain into the channel that led to the tub, all the while explaining about the system of hot and cold springs that welled up on the hill above the villa and fed the reservoirs beneath the house.

Daronwy peeled off his outer tunic as Anluan talked, unselfconscious in his skin, but not wanting to flaunt himself either; the attraction between them both palpable and almost disconcerting. Daronwy had sat down to finish getting out of his sodden boots when the initial gush of water settled to a steady gurgle, and he looked up to find Anluan standing close, and a house-boy putting a neatly folded pile of clothes on a bench.

“Thank you, Rhian.” Anluan said, close enough to touch, the space between them alive with energy as he turned his attention to Daronwy. “Do you want him to stay and assist you?” he asked.

Daronwy shook his head, swallowing. The young man was comely enough, certainly, and likely skilled, but no. That was not what he wanted. “I thank you for the offer,” he said as Rhian left with a nod at Anluan’s gesture, shutting the door behind him as he went. Daronwy could see Anluan’s breath rising and falling under the fine wool of his tunic, the glimmer of light in the jewel threaded through his ear. He was still achingly hard, wanting to touch, to close the small distance between them, but that was still not wise.

Daronwy stood slowly, Anluan’s fathomless eyes meeting his, glad of the generous length of his undertunic, the volume of his trews. He was fairly certain that Anluan was as aroused as he was, from the way he stood with his long legs a little apart, the touch of color on the high cheekbones, the tiny catch of his breath. Almost trembling, Daronwy raised one hand a little when they were face to face, nearly of a height, the air alive between them. Anluan reached out and laced their fingers together, and the touch was like lightning, like the shock of snow on fevered skin. The kiss, when it came, an instant and an eternity later, was like coming home as lips parted eagerly and pressed firm, tongues delved and twined. It was a pleasure and a promise and all too short before Anluan stepped back, pulled away reluctantly. They were both panting like smiths, and Daronwy was fairly certain he could have come kissing, like the veriest boy.

Anluan brushed a finger over Daronwy’s still-parted lips. “We … must talk. Later. Enjoy your bath.” Then he made himself turn and leave Daronwy breathless and shaking with desire, alone in the curling steam. For a long moment Daronwy was not certain if the roar in his ears was from the kiss or the water filling the bath.

* * *

Methos stepped back into the hallway and closed the door behind himself. The first hints of steam were already beginning to show at the crack at the bottom. He could all too easily imagine the scene on the other side: Daronwy, slipping off his travel-stained garments to reveal the slimly muscular body beneath, sliding into the hot water, his eyes closing in pure sybaritic enjoyment.

The image made Methos' breath catch in his throat, and he rested his forehead against the cool wood of the door, feeling almost fevered. Was Daronwy as tight-strung as he was? Was his body as hungry, his pulse racing as swiftly as Methos' own? Was he, even now, sliding a hand beneath the surface of the water, wrapping those long fingers around his cock? Methos was achingly hard beneath his tunica, even the gentle touch of fine-woven wool a maddening almost-friction. Daronwy was not unfamiliar with a man's touch; his kiss had more than shown that. Had he taken advantage of the oils on the shelves?

Methos drew a shuddering breath, picturing it: Daronwy, his head thrown back against the rim of the tub, exposing the slender column of his throat, one leg bent, his cock hard in one hand while with the other he worked himself slowly open, fingers sliding in and out as he writhed with the pleasure of it, his hand moving up and down on himself in an agonizingly slow rhythm. Methos wanted to open the door, to replace Daronwy's hand, first with his own, and then.…

He shook his head like a man coming out of deep thought, stepping back from the door and willing his body to obey him and to relax. Willpower, though, had never had much of an effect on arousal, and he remained as tightly wound as a lyre-string, desire humming just below the surface of his skin. He cast one more glance at the door that separated him from Daronwy, then turned and walked away. Daronwy was not his only guest, and though he was the only guest who mattered to Methos, Anluan felt the need to ensure that Flavius Lucullus had also been appropriately taken care of. He had no doubt as to the competency of his slaves, but a man like Lucullus was likely to take offense if Anluan did not stop by to personally assure himself that all was in proper order. Methos did not care if he offended Lucullus, but Anluan did, so he turned his steps towards the women's quarters.

* * *

Swiftly, Daronwy stripped off the rest of his clothes and tried to get himself under control. His skin burned with arousal, and he was tempted for a moment to step straight into the bath, dunk his head under the stream filling the tub and let the water pound sense back into him. But it would be a shame to muddy the clear water, and a poor return to stain the tiling with the colors he used in his hair. (Besides, he had little enough of the woad and none at all of the oak-gall to refresh it.) Not only did Anluan have a nice selection of oils, there were strigils and strops and a thick reed mat to stand on while employing them. Daronwy was enchanted all over again. Best - and luxurious besides - to scrape away the dirt and muck of travel first. He combed his fingers through his hair and twisted it into a knot on the top of his head, finding a pair of bone pins seemingly laid ready for that very purpose on the low shelf.

Leontes, (Flavius’ least-favored and most thoroughly adept body slave, the one he used to impress guests with his talents and otherwise largely ignored, as he did Daronwy when he could) had taught Daronwy the Greek way of bathing over several mutually enjoyable encounters. He had learned his skill with the strigil in a bathhouse favored by athletes, and furthermore enjoyed the attentions of the men he served. He was boyish in form, small and compactly built, with a sweet, snug ass, shapely thighs, clever hands and a most un-boyish mouth. Leontes could read and write as well, skills which Flavius apparently had no use for in a body slave, but Daronwy appreciated and occasionally abetted. Having someone to talk to made life under Flavius far more endurable than it might have been otherwise, even more than a friendly and willing body in his bed.

As the steaming hot water foamed into the deep tub, filling it slowly, Daronwy lifted one stopper after another, choosing an oil with a scent both spicy and green, and began smoothing it over his skin. Imagining other hands performing that office. He tried to make those imagined hands Leontes’, but it was Anluan’s Daronwy saw, felt, wanted, as he drew the curved bronze edge over his skin, down his flanks, carefully between his buttocks, biting his lips and working extra oil there, one foot propped up on the bench, bent over, letting his own fingers press and linger, stimulate and soothe that soft and secret place. More luxurious than the array of oils and polished strigils was the quiet, the awareness of being alone in a place and at an activity usually populated and loud.

At last he wiped the last of the oil from his skin with the rough linen towel and went to shift the lever as Anluan had showed him, turning off the rushing torrent. Tingling all over, Daronwy lowered himself into the water and sighed with pleasure. He lay back against the curve of the wall and let the heat soak days of strain and travel-stiffness from bone and muscle, flesh and spirit. He could still taste Anluan’s kiss on his lips, his tongue, his very heart. His hand moved lazily to stroke his half-hard shaft to stiffness, and then to completion. His orgasm when it came was a gradual explosion along every nerve, a whole-body convulsion, arousal transmuted to slow and unexpected ecstasy.

Only when the water began to cool did Daronwy sit up, fumble for the chain that worked the drain-plug, and emerge, pink and happy as he had not felt in longer than he cared to recall. Anluan had seen to it that there were fresh, clean clothes for him, good wool and bright-dyed linen, even a pair of neat leather shoes that fit his feet surprisingly well.

* * *


	5. Perspective

* * *

Lane Newland loved her job, and was not just good at it. It was a calling really, or was now that she was working with and for Adam. The nature of the thing meant she had worked closely with number of highly creative, highly strung people, some easier to understand and get along with than others. Adam was highly energized as well, and working with him was exhilarating and satisfying and occasionally terrifying and always rewarding. She hadn’t quite known what to think when Adam dashed off-stage (after singing Starlight with such a yearning beauty and depth that she was nearly brought to tears, much less the audience - if that was what that song was to him it was no wonder he hadn’t sung it since Manchester, the last night of the Idol tour) and asked her to fetch the man with the dark hair and the nose who’d been down front for most of the set, and bring him backstage, to the dressing-room. She had had no trouble at all identifying the man; she’d noticed him herself from the wings — tall, focussed, un-glittery but utterly enthralled, somehow fitting right in with the crowd while at the same time a little apart.

Lane had had no trouble finding him either, still close to the stage with the excited, chattering, energized people eddying about him like a rock in a stream, with a rapt and almost stricken look she recognized very well. Someone who _got_ the music, the underlying energy that arose and poured out from Adam like water from a well-spring, true and vibrant and _real_ , undistracted by the glitter and flash, the vocal pyrotechnics, the assured technique and lovely voice, things that were the perfectly satisfying whole of other artists, and only the surface of what made Adam who and what he was. Someone who loved Adam himself, not just the persona. And Adam had seen that from the stage, while singing his heart out. Lane’s own heart squeezed a little. Adam did that. Made those connections. It was no little part of why she loved him too.

The man had startled when she spoke to him, obviously not expecting to be approached, or even, she judged shrewdly, noticed, in dark, well-cut but unremarkable clothes, one of the donors who gave without fanfare, with at least one more zero than one might expect. Someone who did what he did (and undoubtably did it very well, too) quietly, behind-the-scenes, but no less passionately for being out of the spotlight. Startled but not flinched, and came willingly, maneuvering through the crowd with grace. He was nervous - who wouldn’t be, asked unexpectedly backstage? - but not jittery or tweeked or anything that felt ‘off’, though like most of the people in Adam’s ambit, there was an element of ‘other’. She’d felt quite the fond impulse as she’d urged him into the dressing room.

She’d want to know more about him, certainly, especially if he was going to stick around, even just for the evening. That was simple prudence, and part of what was fun about the job. Nothing about him set off alarms, or she wouldn’t have let him see Adam alone - and even now Sutan was right next door, should Adam need anything. Already the back of her mind was putting the clues she had together, coming up with preliminaries to be going in with. Half-an-hour to the scheduled reception-line/meet and greet, and then the festivities moved next door to the hotel, where the serious schmoozing would take place. Adam’s actual commitments to the evening ended with the theatre gatherings, though she’d thought he was planning to mingle (single and ready to mingle, as he put it, and so far that was working out well for everyone involved) at the hotel parties. It remained to be seen if the advent of this person would affect that. The mingling, not the meet and greet.

She went about making sure all was in order, checking in with Monte and the rest of the band, the dancers (including a twirl-hug from Sasha that was an unexpected pleasure), the crew and the organizers. Everything was going as it ought, just one minor melt-down easily dealt with, and soon enough she was back in the (rather less chaotic) hallway, tapping out ‘two minutes to time’.

Adam’s cheerful and ready “be right there” relieved what hadn’t been a worry. The exalted/incandescent/where did that come from/how is this my life look in his face as he came out the door was something of a revelation. That particular expression had been far less in evidence lately, as Adam had become both more comfortable in the rarefied atmosphere (while, thank everything there was, never loosing his practical and grounded sensibility) and more assured that it wasn’t just a flash in the pan. Even before he said anything, Lane was already thinking (very much to herself) _/boyfriend alert! This one’s serious!/_

“Hey, Lane,” Adam said, in full sparkling-happy mode, as they made their way to where the reception was, “Benjamin’s staying for after. Can you see that he’s ok for while I’m doing the rounds? Something to drink, like that.”

Lane smiled back “Of course. Right after this gets going.”

“And could you maybe get us a pizza for the suite? For after?” Not just full-sparkle, but with that utterly endearing vulnerability and surprise, and always that thoughtfulness that set him apart from so many in this industry. “I’ll be good until you get back. Thank you _so_ much.” He gave her a quick hug and another smile, just for her, collecting the pens she had for him, and then he was striding into the room full of people, rock-star-ready and on the job.

She watched long enough to make sure he was going to be good -- catching Ray and Angela’s eyes, nodding to Roger -- and then returned to the dressing room to properly meet this Benjamin. She was inclined to like him, and certainly Adam did, but that wasn’t going to get in the way of making _sure_ , before she let him run free in Adam’s inner circle. Adam came first.

* * *


	6. Evening Song

* * *

Anluan Metellus may have been a jumped-up half-breed, but he did have an excellent steward and vigilant house-slaves, and there was no faulting his taste. Flavius was more than satisfied with the rooms that had been set aside for him, and with the arrangements that had been made for his use of them. His own slaves unpacked his chests and prepared his clothing for the night's dinner, while two slaves the steward had selected from Metellus' household for the purpose prepared his bath and helped him to undress.

They were both lovely, and alike enough to be brother and sister -- pale-haired and slender, with wide blue eyes and tremulous, sulky mouths, and when he'd finished his bath he tumbled the girl. She was no virgin, but neither was she particularly skilled: she lay still and placid beneath him as he thrust into her. Luckily, she was tight enough that her lack of skill made no particular difference. Flavius reached his release with a grunt and rolled off of her to lie on his side, fondling her small breasts and thinking.

He should have expected that bastard Metellus to grovel in front of his idiot hostage -- mongrels got along better with one another than they did with purely bred dogs. Besides, it was widely rumoured that Metellus preferred boys to girls almost exclusively, and there was no doubt as to which the Briton preferred. There was nothing wrong with taking a boy to bed every now and then, but real men preferred women -- and they never bent over, as Metellus was rumored to do. The odds were good that he was bending over for the Briton at that very moment. After all, he'd given that barbarian son of a bitch a room directly across from his own suite.

Flavius narrowed his eyes, ignoring the faint whimper of pain from the girl as he squeezed her breast too tightly in his irritation, though he did loosen his grip lest she go complaining to her master. Anluan Metellus could build like a barbarian, use his barbarian praenomen, grovel in front of one of their princes, and even get on his knees to suck the bastard's cock without endangering his good name in any way, while Flavius risked everything simply by laying a hand on the little son of a bitch, no matter how richly he deserved it.

If he'd thought he could get away with it, Flavius would have arranged for the Briton to meet with a fatal 'accident', but the whoreson's father was too fierce a warrior to risk angering. The savages had an unpleasant habit of beheading their fallen enemies, and Flavius had no intention of losing Immortality over a savage, no matter how irritating he found the man. After all, the savage was far less infuriating than Anluan Caius Metellus, who pretended to be a Roman and traded on his father's death to live a life of luxury and idleness.

"Get out," he ordered, and when the girl didn't move fast enough to suit him, he shoved her half-dressed out of the suite. She could finish dressing herself in the hallway. It wasn't as though everyone in the household didn't already know the use he had made of her.

Returning to his bed, he flung himself down on top of it, and lay staring up at the ceiling. Damn Anluan Metellus anyway. That cursed halfbreed hadn't earned any of this -- not the house, or the slaves, or the Immortality that would keep him forever young and slender, his face unlined, with none of the residual aches and pains that had already set into Flavius' own body before his first death. He had been handsome once; had drawn women's eyes the way Metelllus did, and been able to inspire them into passion for him rather than simple acceptance of his body. All long ago, the gifts of nature vanished even before the passing of half of a mortal lifetime -- save for Immortality, to make a mockery of all the others.

There was a quiet tap at the door, and Ataxas slipped inside. "Anluan Metellus just came personally to see if there was anything else you needed, my lord. I told him that you were content for the moment. Supper will be served within the hour, and Leontes is ready to help you dress."

Flavius sighed and got to his feet as his valet came in behind Ataxas. "I'll wear what I wore for the governor," he ordered. The valet hesitated.

"My lord, our host will almost certainly --"

"Charon take Anluan Metellus! If he chooses to dress like a savage for supper, he may. Perhaps the reminder of how a man should dress will do him good." The ferocity of his expression was more than enough to keep either slave from commenting further, and there was a distinct air of relief about Ataxas as he slunk out of the room.

Flavius endured his valet's attentions, eyeing his reflection periodically in the long bronze mirror -- yet another ostentation on Metellus' part, he thought scornfully, though it was an enjoyable luxury. When he was satisfied with what he saw, he brushed the slave aside.

"That'll do," he said shortly, examining himself one last time and nodding contentedly as his valet scuttled out. The man in the mirror was dignified, powerful, well-dressed -- the image of Roman power and civilization, gracing an obsolete backwater with his presence. He was no longer young and handsome, but he still knew how to cut an impressive figure, and for the moment, that would suffice.

* * *

When Daronwy returned to the room he had been given, he delved into the depths of his travel-pack and pulled out the wallet with his most prized possessions, opening the soft, waxed leather to reveal the rich gold of the torc his father had gifted him with when he came to manhood. In this moment the reasons he had stopped wearing it seemed small and entirely unimportant. The feel of the heavy gold warming against his collarbones was a kind of grounding, a centering, and he stood a little taller as he drew out his cosmetics and the little shell box of mica dust.

Another lamp stood opposite the window, this one on a graceful standard with a reflector, and on the table under it was a marvel. A mirror lay on a soft cloth, a circle of glass fully three fingers wide, framed in silver and backed with gold. Daronwy traced the complex pattern cast into the frame with reverent fingers, breathing thanks to the powers that had brought him to where he could see such a thing. Angling it so he could see what he was doing, he began to paint his face with formal care.

Outside the tall, narrow window, starless night had fallen, the air thick with whirling snow, already drifted high against the thatched cones of the roundhouses, and entirely covering the track that had led them here. The voices in the wind ran gleeful around the stout walls of the manor house, promising days of storm.

Daronwy was just finishing the final touches when there was a tap at the door and one of the house boys came in, saying first in Latin and then in his own tongue, “Dinner is laid, honored Bard. Would you care to follow me down? An it please you, I am to be your personal attendant while here in my Lord Anluan’s house.” He grinned, irrepressible boy showing through the proper servility. “I’m Niall.” The boy showed promise of beauty when he was a little older; now he was a stripling, more colt than boy, with a shock of red hair and a splash of freckles across his nose. Brightness and intelligence shone in his eyes. Equally obviously he was happy in his service.

“Thank you, Niall,” Daronwy said, smiling back. Once again he was touched at Anluan’s thoughtfulness, and the very aware of the difference in the atmosphere of this house in contrast to Flavius’. For a moment he wished fiercely that Metellus had been senior enough to be the one to have responsibility for the Peace, and this house the place he dwelled. Being held hostage here would be no burden. He pushed the thought away before it could grow roots and purpose. He was obligated to Lucullus. He would hold to honor even if Flavius only made show of it. “I shall like that, I think.”

Dinner in Anluan Caius Metellus’ house was certainly going to be interesting. He was quite looking forward to it. Daronwy followed Niall out the door and down the hall.

* * *

Supper was a tense affair, at least at the high table, despite the excellence of both the food and the wine. Anluan's estate was large enough that the low tables were filled with the various freemen and women who helped it to operate smoothly, and the casual pleasure they took in one another brought a smile to Methos' lips, distracting him for a moment from the stilted, awkward disaster that was dinner with Flavius Lucullus. The Roman had arrived for the meal in all his finery, and though Daronwy and Anluan were both well-dressed, they, like most of the men and women in the hall, had chosen to wear British, rather than Roman, garb. Flavius looked out of place, and looked as if he felt it. Out of a sense of his duty as a host, Anluan had made several attempts to engage him in conversation, but all of them had fallen flat. Flavius sat as if an invisible screen separated him from the rest of the company -- though not, Methos noted, from his food and drink.

Flavius had stopped abruptly on entering the room in full, formal toga and accoutrements, obviously not just taken aback by the presence of tables and chairs rather than couches, but positively insulted. The fact that the lower part of the hall contained most of the rest of the household, as well as people who had to be from the village was injury atop insult. Awkward and uncomfortable was only the beginning of it: he could manage chairs and tables, especially as he could see that Anluan was civilized enough to have proper utensils. Further, it did not appear he intended that the ‘high table’ (so called) be required to eat from common dishes, but would have civilized individual portions. No, the issue was the mere idea that he, a fully Roman patrician and Anluan’s Immortal senior should be required to eat exposed to the eyes of the plebes and slaves was the outside of enough. He made a show of seating himself in the chair his body-slave held for him, deigning to use it. His brow darkened again when he realized that he was seated to Anluan’s left, and the barbarian hostage on the man’s right, the place of greater honor.

With Daronwy, it was the precise opposite. Anluan badly wanted to talk to him, and had been forced to restrict himself to formalities and small talk all through dinner lest Flavius figure out just *how* badly. Methos was unwilling to give another Immortal -- even a friend, which Flavius decidedly wasn't -- that sort of leverage over him, that kind of ability to cause him pain. As a result, they all sat mostly silent through dinner, Anluan -- whenever he was sure that Flavius' attention was elsewhere -- watching Daronwy. The subdued hostage who'd arrived at his door earlier that day had vanished, replaced by the prince and bard he no doubt was under his father's roof, talking easily with those few of Anluan's tenants with the social standing to be invited to eat with their lord. Methos watched him flower in quiet delight, keeping all traces of it off of his face, save for a single glance, when their eyes met and he gave Daronwy a look he hoped would prove impossible to misunderstand. Dinner might have turned out to be a social disaster, but it meant nothing to them, and nothing between them.

When the last of the food had been cleared away, and a kind of sleepy hum had replaced the bright babble of voices, Anluan leaned back in his chair with his glass in hand. He could have wished for Roman-style couches, but it was a minor discomfort: Methos had learned long ago to make himself comfortable on every sort of furniture, even the armless wooden chairs on which they were sitting, despite his personal preference for low couches and cushions on the floor. He sat for a moment watching the low tables, then leaned forward, smiling, to catch Daronwy's attention.

"We're rather isolated here, as you've undoubtedly seen, and despite the enjoyment we've learned to find in one another's company, every man and woman here would be delighted to see you perform. It's a rare treat for us to have a musician of any kind here, much less a true bard; in fact, the rumor of your presence has already made the rounds, and my people are anxiously awaiting its confirmation. I don't wish to impose on you, but I would hate to disappoint them." Anluan looked questioningly at Daronwy. "Would you mind?" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Flavius' lips thin in displeasure. Apparently he was not a music-lover.

"It would be my honor," Daronwy replied, his eyes returning Anluan's smile even though his expression remained grave. Then he glanced at Flavius, and a little of the light died out of his face. Methos kept his own smile in place, but his fingers tightened on his goblet as if it were Flavius' throat. Whatever actions on Flavius' part had resulted in that reaction to his anger on Daronwy's part would not, henceforth, be repeated. Methos half-hoped that the other Immortal would ignore Daronwy's placement at Anluan's right, and the protection that implied. He was not as bloodthirsty as he had once been, but the idea of taking Flavius' head was causing instincts to stir that had begun to go dormant.

"I will be very happy to sing for you and your people." Daronwy's voice recalled Methos to the present, and he realized that the soft gold of his goblet was beginning to bend under the pressure of his fingers.

"Then I and my people thank you," he said, putting the cup down and getting to his feet, lifting a hand for silence. After a few moments he got it, and the anticipation in the faces in front of him was proof that he hadn't exaggerated the efficiacy of the rumor mill in the slightest.

He kept his introduction brief -- after all, hearing him talk was no rarity, and certainly no particular treat -- limiting himself to giving them Daronwy's name, and promising that he was well worth hearing. As he moved to sit down, the hall burst into tumultous applause.

"That's for you," he told Daronwy, holding his gaze with his own. "I know you'll exceed even their expectations." He settled into his seat once more, and turned to watch Daronwy enchant the room.

Singing the storm - wrapping energy around the wind, the seeds of ice, the wheeling stars of snow and coaxing it to his will, to shift its path and slow, to coalesce and spin in this place, not another - had been an impulse, breath and word and note all channeling a purpose and a kind of worship, with little thought for audience, or whence the power came that made the song. That energy came from the earth, from the beat of Daronwy’s blood and the yearning of his spirit, spent without expectation of return other than purpose achieved and knowledge of the balance of the world.

Singing for the hall, the lord in his manor and all the people in it was a different thing entirely. That was performance, exchange, the whole made more with every attendant ear and eye and mind. Singing for crowd of happy, keyed-up people was amazing and there really nothing that compared. Looking out at the wide smiles and shining eyes, Daronwy could hardly believe how different the evening was from the morning, how fortune had chosen to smile in the form of a storm. Even Flavius Lucullus, sitting there like a thundercloud could not dim Daronwy’s joy.

The first few notes of Daronwy's song banished the sleepy, sated feeling in the hall and swung the mellow contentment into something more active; something that required participation. Anluan saw people keeping time with hands, feet, and the occasional raised cup, and almost every face wore a wide smile. He could feel a smile tugging at his own lips and let it have its way, pleased by the obvious enjoyment his people were taking from the performance as well as by the song itself. The snow-song Daronwy had made earlier, in the private space the two of them had shared, had been one sort of magic. This was something else entirely, a different skill on display. Daronwy was performing here, engaging an audience, pulling reactions from it as skillfully as any actor or orator. He had the room in the palm of his hand, and it was a joy to watch. The applause that followed included some shouts of approval, as well as one or two shrill whistle. Daronwy was radiant, smiling brilliantly, and the look he gave Anluan pierced Methos to the heart.

The first song was filled with that joy, pure happiness, with a rhythm that set toes tapping and hands dancing in the air. The notes were bright and high and deep, opening spaces and letting light fill and overflow in hearts and minds. Latin, Greek, Briton and his people, the people of the sacred isle, each had light-words, joy-words, words that lifted up, and Daronwy used them all, spinning them out in a chorus that first one and then another of the people caught and sang back until the whole hall was part of the music, the spark and upward spiral of delight.

Then the obverse of joy, the yearning, the sorrow that was the dark behind the light. The heights and far reaches, the treasures lost, the lonely years, the unbearable, heart-breaking beauty of the stars in winter, and the cry of the sea-bird at the edge of the Western Shore, the endless leagues over which the summerlands lay. Daronwy sang the language of his home, long unseen, but it was hardly the words that mattered, for the meaning was in the notes themselves.

The hall grew quiet again as soon as Daronwy opened his mouth, the people spelled to silence by his voice. This song had as much power to move as the first, but it moved them to stillness, to rapt focus on the music pouring through the room, and the emotions it evoked. Methos listened with his eyes closed, letting himself react without having to worry about concealing those reactions. There was a thread of longing running through the song that reminded him of Carthage, burned and plowed into salted earth, of lost Atlantis and of vanished Babylon, of ruined Sippar and of fallen Troy: that called to mind the ghosts of mortals loved and lost, and the memories of dead countries, their lands long since moved on to other names. The last note rang through the hall and faded into a silence just as reverberant that lasted for several heartbeats. Methos schooled his reaction and opened his eyes, to see Daronwy's rapt and shining face. Then applause, a tumult of it that went on and on, not stopping until Daronwy took a breath to sing once more.

Daronwy brought back the energy from the first song to round out the set, and Methos was grateful for the opportunity to retreat back into Anluan once again. This time, the song was partly in Latin as well as several different languages of the tribes, a clever ditty that was as much satire as story, and poked subtle fun at a certain class of pretentious nobleman. The men and women at the low tables loved it, roaring with laughter at the end, and Anluan himself laughted hard enough that he was wiping tears from his eyes when the last note of the song was swallowed up by the tumultuous applause that rang from the rafters.

Finally the applause began to die down, and Daronwy came still smiling back to the table, his eyes shining. Anluan rose as he approached, and realized as he did so that Flavius was no longer at the table -- that, in fact, he was no longer within sensing range. The direction of Daronwy's glance said that he'd just realized the same thing. His eyes met Anluan's, who shrugged minutely before dismissing Flavius utterly.

"That was everything I expected and more," Anluan told him as they both sat back down. Since Flavius had retired, he allowed himself to reach over and brush a lock of hair out of Daronwy's face, breath catching at the sudden flash of heat in his eyes. "Thank you," he said again. "The memory of your performance will enliven a number of dull winter nights." Anluan didn't let himself hope that Daronwy himself might be around to do that himself, but he couldn't help wanting it any more than he could help wanting Daronwy.

The bard was still almost vibrating with energy, both his own and the room's: he shone with it, and it made it almost impossible to resist touching him. "I had forgotten," he said, quietly enough that Anluan had to strain to hear him over the noise in the hall, "what singing for an appreciative audience is like. I'm --" He paused, his eyes searching Methos' for the space of a heartbeat that seemed to stretch like eternity. "Out of practice," he continued, breathlessly.

The cumulative effect of Daronwy's songs had been to dispell the sleepy, post-prandial mood that had gripped the hall, and to restore the atmosphere of boisterous celebration that had reigned earlier in the evening. Anluan ordered one more round of wine for everyone present, and they cheered him for his decision while his steward went to arrange for it to be carried out. While the wine was being poured, Anluan leaned towards Daronwy, pitching his voice so as to be heard above the din, but only by Daronwy."I can barely hear myself think, much less you. This is a large house, and we're certain to be able to find some spot quiet enough for conversation, if we try. In fact, I seem to recall your being in possession of a room that would suit very well for that purpose." There were other things that the room would be suitable for, but Anluan didn't want to seem as if he were demanding anything.

Daronwy flushed, face coloring in a way that sent a flash of answering heat through Anluan's veins. "It is a very comfortable room," he said. His voice, too, was pitched for their ears alone. "Well suited for...talking, in whatever form it might take."

His deliberate pause left no room for misunderstanding; nor did his tone of voice, and the sight of his pink tongue darting out to wet his lips made heat pool low in Anluan's belly, his breath catching in his throat. It was a moment or two before he could speak."In that case, I suggest we retire for the evening." He pushed away from the table and rose, unable to take his eyes from Daronwy as the two of them made their way to the door and down the hall. The stairway was narrow enough to necessitate their going single file, but once they reached the top, Anluan paused to let Daronwy catch up. They walked down the hall to Daronwy's room, shoulders brushing, and even that light, innocent contact was enough to make Anluan feel as if he would burst into flames. Neither of them felt the need to speak.

It seemed to take an eternity to reach Daronwy's chamber. Methos watched him open the door as if in a dream and followed him inside, still unspeaking. He watched the heavy panel swing closed; heard the soft thud of the bar falling into place, sealing them into their own private world. Daronwy was only a foot away. Methos closed the distance between them in a single step, one hand cradling the side of Daronwy's face as he brought their mouths together.

* * *


	7. Old Eyes and New

* * *

 

Methos lifted his head at the light tap on the door, which opened to reveal the blonde who'd come to get him out of the crowd. This, clearly, was Lane. Methos had liked her on sight, though he'd been too stunned at the time to process that fact. Now, though, he gave her Benjamin's most charming smile -- which was very like Adam Pierson's had been -- and stood up as she entered the room.

"You're Lane, right?" he guessed, offering her his hand. "I'm Benjamin Dawson."

 _/Charming and personable when not caught up in the music, check/_ Lane thought as she shook the proffered hand. Nicely kept, no manicure, firm grip without any annoying come-on nonsense. Real charm and real personality, she noted, as was the case more often than not with Adam’s friends — she’d been in the business more than long enough to have a very finely tuned sense for such things — and while he still radiated energy, he seemed more settled. The standing up when she came in hadn’t been affected, but a genuine politeness. “I am,” she said, smiling back. “Adam asked me to see you were comfortable until he returns. Can I get you anything — water? Tea? There’s a fruit-plate over there.” Which hadn’t been grazed more than the piece or two that Adam usually ate, and Sutan’s grapes. Refreshingly unassuming.

"Tea would be fine," Methos told her, glancing at the fruit plate, which he hadn't noticed. "Though if you're busy, I promise I'm capable of feeding and entertaining myself. I certainly don't want to intrude." He looked around the room, then smiled at Lane. "Though -- I don't suppose you have a radio of some sort? It's rather quiet in here."

Radio? That single word said a good deal about Mr (or was it Doctor? Probably Doctor, though of what was still an open question. Not practicing medical, unless he was research) Benjamin Dawson (and he was definitely a Benjamin, not a Ben, or heaven forfend, a Benny). No smart-phone or media player in that neatly tailored suit. Further out of his element than she had initially thought.

Lane turned to check the water level in the electric kettle and set it heating. “For tea there’s lemon-ginger, darjeeling, mint and throat-coat. The water will be hot in just a moment.” When she looked back at him, she caught a fleeting sense of what she could only think of as ‘little-boy-lost.’ Benjamin was out of his usual context here, though not in any outward or obvious way. “Is this the first time you’ve been to one of Adam’s concerts?” she asked with sympathy, not accusation. “I can certainly loan you my iPod if you’d like. I’ve got playlists of all of Adam’s songs, some of the fan recordings. I’ve even got all the Idol performances.” She wasn’t quite sure why she offered that last, and she stopped herself from going on to justify their presence on her personal player, a little surprised at herself for the impulse at all.

"Mint is fine. Am I really that obviously out of place?" Benjamin asked, smiling ruefully. "It's the glitter, isn't it -- I forgot the glitter." He let his smile fade, and looked seriously at Lane. "If you're sure you don't mind letting me borrow your iPod, I'd actually really appreciate it." He'd stopped trying to keep things like iPhones and mp3 players after the third time a Quickening had melted his iPod. "I have bad luck with technology, but as long as I don't take it anywhere, it should be fine."

Lane added ‘perceptive’ and ‘bright’ to her preliminary take on Benjamin — most people did not bother to read the supporting satellites of a luminary, much less with such accuracy. “Not obvious, no.” The kettle clicked off and she poured the water over the tea-bag into the mug, enjoying the crisp scent of the mint. “Adam’s fans and friends are all kinds of diverse.” She liked his face, both smiling and serious. There was a mind behind those seeing eyes, and a sense of humour, about himself and the world, essential in coping with the insanity that was the entertainment industry, even peripherally, and Adam was hardly on the fringes. “The glitter isn’t essential, but there certainly is a lot of it.” There was even a dash of blue-iridescent shine in his hair that had not been there before. Definite positive-friend/potential boyfriend vibe too, though older and taller than any of the exes-still-friends she knew. She put the mug on the end-table, the teas still steeping. He was watching her with a quality of stillness that Lane found refreshing, and could appreciate that Adam would too. Yes. Inner-circle unless evidence proved otherwise. Her iPod was in the front pocket of the bag she was never without, and it was hardly a moment to pull it out and bring up the ‘AL-Favorites’ list. “I don’t mind at all, or I wouldn’t have offered.”

"Thanks." Every so often, there was a moment of disorientation, a few seconds in which even for him, the world was simply too incredible to entirely understand, the leap from the antler, bone and flint tools of his earliest memories to the slim plastic case in his hand almost incomprehensible. Then he shook his head and moved on. Now, scrolling through the playlist, he smiled up at Lane. "This should keep me occupied for some time." Adam hadn't had the same training this time around, and the reasons behind his performances were different, but there was still a thread that undeniably bound the music in his hand with the music he'd heard in Anluan Caius Metellus' hall more than two thousand years earlier, a thread that was far less fragile than two human lives. "Thank you," he said again. "I've only heard a few of these."

“You are quite welcome, Benjamin,” Lane said, smiling back. There was something — an energy, a sense, an aura — almost fey about him. Not fey in the way Brad or Sutan could be, but more like … some mythical creature, born in a far-off land, a distant time, perilous and fair. Well, as long as he was not perilous to Adam, he could be as Other as he liked. It that way Benjamin would fit right in with Adam’s friends. “Is there anything else I can get you? I expect Adam to be free in not more than an hour, and most likely less.”

Benjamin shook his head, and Lane continued, “Once the formalities are done, everyone will be going over to the hotel, and there’s pizza coming. What would you like on yours?”

"That's right." Benjamin smiled. "Adam did say to tell you my pizza preferences. I'd forgotten. Hmm..." He drummed his fingers on the arm of the couch, thinking for a moment, then shrugged. "To be honest, I really couldn't care less. Sorry -- I realize that's probably not helpful -- but unless you're getting individual pizzas for everyone, I'll be fine with whatever you decide to order." Mostly because he didn't plan on eating any of it. Methos would happily consume stuffed dormice and sheep's eyeballs, but pizza ranked right up there with haggis on the list of foods he couldn't stand.

Lane had no trouble at all decoding that statement. “What would you like instead?” Might as well get his preferences file started anyway, though she’d keep it in her head at least until she was out of the room. “Anything that should be avoided, allergies or …?” Whether the party was two or twenty, Lane took pride in making sure that anyone Adam asked her to feed or make arrangements for was happy with what they got. Especially when it was almost certainly going to be a party of two.

"Oh, no, pizza's fine," Benjamin told her earnestly. "There's no need to change arrangements you've already made."

Lane gave him a Look. “Nothing’s been ordered yet. Please tell me what you would like.” Admittedly, diffidence was different from the usual in this crowd, but that wasn’t going to stop her getting what Adam wanted to happen done.

Benjamin sighed, surrendering to the expression on Lane's face. "Anything's fine, really. I'm just not a fan of pizza. A cheeseburger and some french fries will do nicely. And maybe some good beer?" He sent her a hopeful look from under his eyelashes.

“A cheeseburger and fries it shall be, then.” She smiled at him with a perfectly straight face. “And good beer. Light, dark or ‘anything that’s not making out in a canoe’?” In fact, the alcohol had been laid on long since, and included a wide variety from artisan brewers to Budweiser. She fully expected him to laugh, or at least chuckle.

"The latter, certainly," Methos smiled. He couldn't remember when he'd first heard that joke -- or rather, a variant of it -- but it had been around for a very long time. "Beyond that, I prefer dark beer to light, and I'm a fan of anything unusual."

“There’s some artisan things I think you’ll enjoy. Good.” Lane nodded acknowledgement to the answers to the beer question. She was about to leave him to the music when the change of expression came over his face.

Methos tipped his head to one side, regarding Lane for a moment. He wanted to ask her about Adam, to find out how much of Daronwy has survived death and rebirth, but wasn't sure if it would be presumptuous of him. Besides, she was almost certainly too busy to indulge him. Still, it never hurt to ask, and he really did want to know.

"Is it all right if I ask you a couple of questions?" he asked.

* * *


	8. Hand-fasting

* * *

Daronwy felt the wood of the door hard under his shoulder-blades, was still sufficiently in the extra-awareness given by the kind of performance he had done that he could practically sense the slow life of the oak trees that the boards had once been as they held him up under the glorious onslaught of Anluan’s mouth and the insistent press of his long body. Daronwy reached out to cup the back of Anluan’s head, thread his fingers through the short, thick hair and with the other hand find the small of Anluan’s back and the sweet swell of buttock. He tilted his head, opening his mouth and inviting Anluan’s tongue to dance with his own, and arched his hips up so they were pressed together breast to knees.

Anluan’s mouth was as hot and sweet as fire-warmed mead, and just as intoxicating. He felt as though they could kiss for hours and never find the end of each other. But there was so much more he wanted: touch, and taste and skin against skin. The new-filled lamps cast golden light over everything, and Daronwy wanted to see that light touch everything that Anluan’s tunics hid, the fire in the hearth and the fire hot between them make sweat spring up in beads, so he could chase them down into Anluan’s secret places with tongue and finger-tip. He wanted everything, and he tried to say all that with the fervor of his mouth on Anluan’s.

The first curl of Daronwy's tongue against Methos', the feel of those musician's hands curving around the back of his head, pulling their bodies closer together, and Methos was lost, Anluan forever banished from the space between himself and Daronwy. There was no space between himself and Daronwy, not any longer, any more than there was space between skin and air. He could feel Daronwy's arousal hard against his own, could feel the heat of it even through their clothing, and the sudden hunger that rose up in him startled him with its force, left him trembling in its wake.

Methos brushed one more kiss over Daronwy's lips, then went to his knees in a single, smooth movement, his hands deftly removing the clothing in his way until it no longer was, and Daronwy's cock was freed from its constraints, stood proud and demanding until he wrapped one hand snugly around the base and took the rest of it into his mouth. It had been no small amount of time since he'd last been on his knees in front of another man, but it wasn't the sort of thing that could be forgotten. The throb of his own neglected arousal was insignificant, so long as he had this: had Daronwy's muscular thighs trembling beneath his hands, the ache in his jaw, the weight and taste of Daronwy's cock on his tongue, the stretch of his lips around it; had Daronwy's hands in his hair, urging him on.

Anluan’s mouth on him was an astonishment, and Daronwy could not help but cry out as Anluan sucked and squeezed and swallowed him down with no hesitation at all. He had never felt the like, and it was very nearly too much, certainly it obliterated thought, leaving him panting, light-headed, on the edge of orgasm in mere moments. His hands spasmed, fingers still tangled in Anluan’s hair, and he had just enough presence of mind to keep his hips from bucking, grateful for the press of Anluan’s strong forearm, holding him still. Daronwy barely had time for a second, strangled cry - warning, ecstasy, release - and he was coming like a thunderclap, sharp and sudden. He hadn't come that fast and hard in years, and it shook him like a leaf.

Methos rode out Daronwy's release, not pulling away, swallowing every drop while his hands moved to Daronwy's thighs, then around to cup the sweet curve of his arse, the touch becoming a caress as he pulled back, letting Daronwy's softening member slip from his mouth. Licking absently at his lower lip, he rose to his feet, taking Daronwy's hand in his and pulling him in for a kiss that held all of the hunger that still burned in his veins. "I'll give you anything, everything," he promised, the words almost lost in the heat between their mouths.

The feeling behind Anluan’s words nigh undid Daronwy, even as the meaning struck deep in his heart. To be offered so much, so unreservedly was a gift beyond any measure. Daronwy could feel the truth of it in the press of Anluan’s body to his, the fierce ardor of his kiss, the echo of his words, hanging still and sure in the air. Together they were fire and music, and everything about this felt right, meant, as the universe willed it. Words formed in his head that his tongue was too busy to say, but the song they were the seed of would keep — _/Art Brigid’s own, blade formed, fire formed, green and gold and white as summer sun and winter ice, that She will mark thy words as oath? Oh Witness then, Bard and Bride and Healing Knife, my hand, my heart, my sacred breath to him, when free I am to speak it so/_ — and Daronwy met Anluan’s kiss without holding back, wrapping him in a comprehensive hug that offered everything in return.

For a long moment, Methos was content to simply let himself be held, to cling back in return, the warmth and certainty of Daronwy's embrace something he hadn't the words for, in any language. He kissed him again, and then again, and when he stopped, was unwilling to pull any further than to rest his forehead against Daronwy's. "Tell me what I can give you," he whispered, overwhelmed by the sweet pain in his chest.

Daronwy heard himself speak, wholly himself (each particle of him aware of Anluan, contradictions and complexities on every level, Roman and Briton and Other, ageless-old-young, white-hot and green-ice, and threaded through all the sharp scent of lightning dancing bright, bone and breath and blood thundering swift beneath the skin) and equally inhabiting that other realm, where gods spoke and words shaped solid things, making worlds “I want …” _everything, give, receive, touch, see, fill, be filled, everything_ “to see you. To touch you.” He let his hands smooth up and down Anluan’s back, still holding close. “And then … go where inspiration leads.” Wherever and however and whatever that might be.

Methos kissed him again, and it was so, so sweet; so hard to pull away from. "Come to bed, then," he said.

They made it to the bed in what Methos would always remember as a blur of kissing and touching, of Daronwy's hands on his skin and Daronwy's skin under his hands. They tumbled onto the bed together, Daronwy's weight on him a living anchor, holding him here, holding him in the present. He reached up, pulling Daronwy down into another druggingly sweet kiss; looked up at him and lifted a hand to cradle his face. "You have no idea how beautiful you are." Another kiss, Daronwy's mouth a temptation he can't get enough of.

Daronwy didn’t think of himself as beautiful, but the heartfelt truth of Anluan’s words made him feel it, believe it, in the heat and wonder of what was building in and around them. Beauty shared and multiplied. "Anluan," Daronwy gasped, one hand cradling his face.

Methos took a shuddering breath and kissed him again. "Methos." He whispered it into the kiss, so quietly that it was almost lost in the space between their mouths. "My name is Methos."

True-name, heart-name, a name that fit into all the layers and complexities, not just the surface. “Methos,” Daronwy breathed back, the air that shaped the sounds pulled from the deepest places in him, speaking the Name sealing the truth of it, the rightness of the connection between them. And knowing the inner truth - an inner truth, not the whole, a lifetime would not be enough to know the whole - Daronwy wanted, needed, burned to see, to touch, to learn the outer shape, skin and taste and everything else. “Let me _see_ you,” he said, low and intense.

Methos shuddered under his hands as Daronwy unfastened, unfolded, unclosed and pulled free each garment in turn, revealing a little more with each layer. He touched and kissed, nuzzled and looked on every new expanse with wonder and delight, until all that was left was the jewelry that shone at neck and ears, wrist and fingers. Pale length spread out upon the richly dyed wool and dark furs that covered the bed, sweat shining in the fire and lamplight, thighs open and trembling, cock arching stiff and wine-dark from it’s nest of curls. Methos’ head was thrown back against the pillows, throat exposed, breast rising and falling in quick, gasping breath, eyes dark and hot under veiling lashes. Oh, Daronwy wanted. Wanted _in_ , to fill, fold close, feel held and holding, to plumb the smallest depth of this amazing man.

Impatient, his own shaft fully recovered, aching and harder than before, Daronwy hurried out the rest of his own clothes and knelt between Methos’ knees. For a moment he let his head rest in the hollow of Methos’ hip, his hands curling over the sharp, beautiful points, pressing into the firm curves of his arse. “I want you,” he groaned, Methos’ cock hot against his cheek. “I want you.”

"Yes," Methos gasped, reaching a hand to cradle Daronwy's face, to run his fingers through long dark hair. "Oh, yes." Daronwy was incredible without his clothing, the marks of tattoos emphasising the elegant beauty of him, the strength and the life of him, and Methos pulled him up, glorying in the slide of skin on skin, kissed him again and again.

He wanted, with a hunger he'd not expected to find again so soon after Lunedd's death; wanted to be held, taken, to give himself entirely to Daronwy and to the desire that had built between them, entangling them both and drawing them together. He shifted, bringing his feet up to rest on the bed, bending his knees, his thighs parting, offering himself silently, asking to be filled.

When Methos arched his back and spread his knees in clear invitation, Daronwy had to hold himself quite still for a moment, lest something break or burst or come undone too soon. “So beautiful” Daronwy murmured, “so alive and present and beautiful, waiting to be taken, wanting to be filled.” He hardly knew what he was saying, a litany of heat and desire and delight. He let his hands trace the crease between hip and thigh, worshipped briefly at the weeping head of Methos’ cock, the needy sounds Methos made at the sweep of tongue and suckle of lips a music he would never forget. “I will take care of you, yes, oh yes.”

There was a small unlit lamp by the bed, filled with sweet oil. Daronwy reached for it, dipped his fingers in the reservoir and sent them delving, slick and dripping between Methos’ cheeks. There was the soft place, the way in, the hidden entrance. He circled it, petting and then pressing in, first one finger and then second soon after, Methos opening for him, oh, eager for it. He’d done this before, he was pushing down on Daronwy’s fingers, wanting more, begging with ragged breath and thudding pulse. Daronwy went deep, curling and twisting his fingers with deliberation, seeking, yes, there. Methos cried out, shuddering, hands clenching in the furs. “Oh, you like that, you want that, don’t you, eager and open and asking for it.” Stretched on three fingers now, Methos was thrashing, moaning, balls tight and cock like iron. Daronwy caressed the tender skin behind his balls with his thumb, moved his fingers against that place inside and watched as Methos came undone with a keening cry, clenching around Daronwy’s fingers, seed spilling on his belly as he arched and jerked with the force of his release.

Daronwy’s heart squeezed tight in his chest, and his eyes stung with tenderness. He curled down to hold Methos with his free arm, pulling him close, rocking him and pressing kisses to the places Daronwy’s mouth could reach. His fingers kept up their slow circling inside as Methos rested trembling hands at the nape of Daronwy’s neck, the back of his wrist, holding his hand pressed all the way in. Daronwy could feel every aftershock as it washed through him. His own cock pulsed, hard and ready.

After a moment, Methos’ fingers moved to pet at the wet head of Daronwy’s shaft, pluck at Daronwy’s gently moving fingers. “In me, please. I want all of you in me.” Breathless with desire. Amazingly, Daronwy could feel Methos’ cock already firming again.

It was the work of a moment to oil his shaft, to arrange their legs so Daronwy could enter smoothly and fully in to easily reach that wonderful place. To slide his fingers out, stretching , holding Methos open, exposed, so amazing and wonderful, and then push into that welcoming heat. He started slow but Methos’ hands and hips were urging him on, bucking up and taking him all, until he was completely engulfed. Methos’ stiffening cock was pressed against Daronwy’s belly, and he had never felt such sweetness, such complete acceptance and delight at being filled. It was too much to stay still, and he began to move, first rocking small, then harder and faster until they were grappling on the bed, bodies moving desperately together, hardly knowing whose hand or mouth was whose, they were so close in need-desire. He’d had men this way before, but never so responsive, so actively eager for it. Even Leontes, who did like being fucked, preferred he go slow, ease himself in, whereas Methos was meeting him thrust for thrust, and equal partner in the dance, and it was a swift, hot, glorious ascent to ecstasy. Then the rhythm broke as release crashed over them both, Daronwy thrusting wildly, short and sharp before plunging deep with a cry drawn from the very core of him. Methos arched like a bow beneath him, clenching around him, cock jerking against him, desperate and wet.

They collapsed in a tangle, and Daronwy buried his face in Methos’ shoulder as emotion and aftershock swept through him, spilling tears and seed alike. Methos’ hand settled like a bird on his head, petting his hair, cradling him close. The other swept slow and not quite steady down his back to cup his ass, and Methos shifted his hips so they were belly to belly, Daronwy still buried deep in his soft heat, held fast and sure as one sob after another shook him. He had never felt, never been so wholly, unreservedly loved. For this was love, wrapped around and under and through the desire and the pure carnal pleasure of what they had made between them. Love. He never, ever wanted to let go.

Methos lifted a hand to Daronwy's dark hair, tangling his fingers in the soft strands, pressing his lips to Daronwy's temple, his heart full and his walls tumbling, falling to nothing beneath the gentle touch of Daronwy's hands. His other hand ran over Daronwy's back and back up, gentle, soothing sweeps while he murmured endearments in a scattering of languages long dead, their speakers forgotten long before Rome had risen to tower above history, or Greece and civilization had lit the Aegean as if with a lamp.

It was easy to slip from there into Daronwy's own language, the liquid syllables he'd learned a hundred years earlier and perfected in Lunned's arms. "You're so beautiful, you're perfect," he said, his hands sliding worshipfully over Daronwy's skin, stroking through his hair with the same sense of reverent awe. Methos had little desire to worship deities, capricious immortals all too like himself, preferring instead to save that emotion for the short-lived brilliance of mortals. "I could love you, oh so much, for the rest of your life. I would give you everything I am, for as long as you live."

Oh, not just love, but love returned. Love spoken in the language that shaped reality with oath and will, creating with breath, not just the legalities — descriptives, pre- and pro-scriptives, the fixed and written code — of Latin, all angles and no curves. Daronwy could not but weep harder, joy and sorrow inextricably mixed. For how could they have each other, outside this moment-out-of-time, this storm, this stolen hour? “Thou hast my heart, singing and silent,” he whispered, words drawn like gold from the very wellspring of his being, “breath and blood, seed and bone, sacred will and sacred word.” It was an oath he did not have leave to give, as Hostage, yet could not but give it anyway, as a person before the gods. Very gently Daronwy pressed a kiss over Methos’ heart. “My love and my beloved, in all the lands there are, or shall be; together or parted, time present or yet to come.” An extravagant oath, and every word of it heart-truth. “On my name as a bard and a son of bards, on the breath that gives me life and voice, on the seed we have shared, so mote it be.”

Methos took a shuddering breath, and the words spilled from him like water, "And thou hast my soul, whether it is mine or another's, have breath and blood and the lightning in it, seed and bone, sacred will and sacred word." Nothing he was saying was planned: it seemed called from him by something beyond his control. He kissed Daronwy's forehead, and the palms of both his hands. "My love and my beloved, in all the lands there are or shall be, together or parted, time present or yet to come, for as long as there is breath in my lungs or life in my blood." Daronwy would die, as did all mortals, but he would never cease to live in Methos' memory. "I pledge you my memory, for as long as I live, on the name I made for myself, and the name that was given me, on the fire within that gives me life and breath and youth, on the blood I have spilled and the seed we have shared; I swear it."

Daronwy laced his fingers with Methos’ gripping tightly. “Brid hear and Bladud witness” he said low and clear, “this union made, these hands joined fast.” As if in answer, a flame leapt up in the fireplace, and the note of the storm changed for a moment. Daronwy pressed his forehead to Methos’ breast and held his hand even tighter. “I have not the right to have oath-bound us. ‘A hostage may not marry, withouten the consent of the chief he is held by’ an this is a thing he will never do, witness of the gods or no. He will separate us.”

"Daronwy." Methos tilted his head up with a gently implacable touch on his chin, until their eyes met. "There's only one thing that will ever seperate us, and it certainly isn't that spoiled Roman child downstairs." He leaned down and kissed Daronwy, letting his certainty flow through him. "Nothing short of death will ever take you away from me." Of course at death, that separation would be permanent. Methos had never considered that before, not until Llunedd had pointed it out, with such anguish in her voice that it had hurt him to hear.

Daronwy returned Methos’ kiss gratefully, hearing the sincerity and certainty in Methos’ words all the way to his bones, as he had the oath-words Methos had sworn. He could also feel a faint tremble of strain in his legs from being bent and still for so long, and knew that Methos’ thighs must be feeling the same. Reluctantly, Daronwy shifted, sighing a little as his cock slipped from the warm grip of Methos’ body. Moving no further apart than necessary, and with Methos’ eager help, they were soon under the covers, legs tangled and groins happily pressed together. Only death could truly separate them.

The rest of what Methos had said struck him then, and Daronwy leaned up on one elbow, tracing shapes on the fine, unmarked skin of Methos’ breast. “How is it that you call Flavius Lucullus a child? Though I own he acts like one, his grey hairs would say otherwise.” As he asked, other phrases and words in Methos’ oath came to mind as particularly significant. Unless one was very unwise, one did not invoke or swear by things that were not truth, and Methos was not unwise. Daronwy went on before Methos could answer, not worried precisely, but needing to know. Had he perhaps married not just one favored and touched by the gods, but one of the gods themselves, walking the earth in human form for a span? Or something Other still? “And how might it be that your soul be ‘yours or another’s’? What is the lightning in your blood, the fire that sustains youth?” He sought out Methos’ hands and kissed the palms. “Have I married a selkie or a spirit of the air come to bide on earth?” There was wonder in his voice, but no accusation. Daronwy did not for a moment doubt the rightness of the inspiration that had lead him to this place, this man.

"Which question would you like me to answer first?" Methos asked, laughing, even as he shivered with joy at the word 'married'. It was not his usual emotion during this conversation, but then, there was none of the usual fear in Daronwy's eyes, and no sense of pulling away, despite his mention of selkies and spirits. "I'm no selkie, and no spirit, I swear it -- but Flavius Portius Lucullus is a child all the same, despite his grey hair and the three centuries he's already lived."

He could see fresh questions flashing through Daronwy's eyes, and forestalled them by continuing, "I'm human enough -- just Immortal. As is Flavius Lucullus, though I'm ashamed to admit as much. Llunedd wasn't my mother; she was my wife, and I the Roman who kidnapped and loved her." And oh, he had loved her, from the moment he saw her, still did and always would. He kept finding more room in his heart than he'd thought possible. "As for the fire, and the lightning -" He stretched, reaching behind one of the bedposts for the knife he kept there, small and balanced for throwing. Slicing open his hand wasn't enough of a demonstration - he healed too quickly for the dramatics on so small a wound -- so he rolled over, holding his arm over the floor.

"I swear to you," he told Daronwy, "you've no cause for concern." Then he cut himself open from wrist to elbow. It was overly showy, perhaps, but achieved the desired effect -- or perhaps his Quickening simply knew what he wanted from it. Either way, it sent blue fire flickering from one end of the wound to the other during the few seconds it took for the wound to knit itself back together. Only a few drops of blood fell to the floor, but it was enough for Methos to be glad he'd chosen not to risk spoiling the bedding. The last question he left unanswered, not entirely sure that he wanted to go into the Game with Daronwy, afraid he'd see the fear or revulsion his otherness hadn't provoked. "See?" He smiled, watching Daronwy almost shyly. "Fire and lightning."

Daronwy’s eyebrows shot up at the idea of Flavius Lucullus as anyone or anything gods-touched, much less one of the Undying, but to learn that Methos was one of them was no surprise at all. Nor was it startling to know that not all the Undying were as the tales told, but walked and lived and loved as men. When Methos produced a knife seeming from the air (though a moment’s thought told him it had been in the bedframe already, though for why he did not know) Daronwy stilled, not frightened, but his senses brought to even sharper focus. The grimace of pain that flashed over Methos’ face as he used the blade to lay open his flesh told Daronwy more than any words that the wound hurt, however quickly the lightning wove it up again. His own heart squeezed tight. Three drops of blood had fallen, red as the marks on Daronwy’s cheek were blue. “Fire and lightning indeed,” Daronwy echoed as he gathered Methos back to him, and in that moment it seemed more sacrament than strange to trace the path the knife had drawn, now only a red-beaded line, with reverent, gentle lips. Methos shivered as Daronwy placed a last kiss at the pulse of his wrist.

“But if three hundred years is a child’s span, how old are you?” Daronwy asked, wonderingly. “ And,” he looked at the knife loose in Methos’ fingers, so very ready to hand, and thought of the question he had not answered. “Why might your soul be another’s, and not your own?” No gift such as that lightning, sustaining fire, came without price. Daronwy touched light fingers to Methos’ forearm, where the lightning had flashed brightest. Concern roughened his voice, “What is the geas, the price, for this?”

"One I've managed to avoid paying for a very long time -- so long that I'm not entirely sure how old I am. They tell stories about a five thousand year old man, but I think I'm older even than that. We're hard to kill permanently, but it's not impossible. And if one of us kills me, he gets my Quickening -- the fire you saw -- the force that keeps me alive. He gets my soul -- power and memory both. If a mortal does it, all of that gets lost." He smiled faintly, taking Daronwy's hands in his and kissing both of his palms. "Which means that we have this lifetime, and nothing more. I don't know what happens to Immortals when we die," though he had his nightmares, "but I don't think it's the same thing that happens to you. And it happens fairly frequently. Flavius Lucullus and I have an unspoken truce -- though if he tries to seperate us, it will come to an abrupt and bloody end -- but a lot of Immortals challenge one another to the death on sight. It's the Game, you see -- and the rule is that there can be only one. Kill another Immortal, and you get his power. And in the end, if you are that one, you win the Prize." Methos laughed bitterly.

"Don't ask what that Prize is. It might be ultimate power, it might be mortality -- or it might be a cheap piece of gaudy jewelry. Nobody knows. Nobody even knows if the Game is real, but a lot of them play anyway. I used to play anyway. And I was very, very good at it." Methos drew a shuddering breath, but forced himself to continue, his voice even. "You haven't married an innocent, Daronwy. Not only am I the best there is at a game that involves killing, but my hands are red with mortal blood. If you want to rescind your oath, there's not a god out there who would think you forsworn.

Daronwy’s first instinct after listening with complete attention to what Methos was saying was to reach for him, fold him close, but Methos was holding himself still and distant. The misery in his face made Daronwy ache to ease it. He compromised by taking Methos’ hand in both of his own and bringing it to his breast after kissing the palm. Methos’ fingers were icy. That many years — it was too many to comprehend, to imagine. Methos was older than the stones that stood in circled, sacred might upon the sarum plain. “The gods but witness the oaths between men, they do not make them. Tis my own heart I would answer to, did I disavow my word.” He looked searchingly at Methos’ face. “Your words and your face tell me that the price of living Undying is loneliness amid strife, where those of your own kind might turn against you at any meeting, ruled will-ye nil-ye by this Game of kill or be killed. Have I that aright?”

"Perfectly." Methos could feel Daronwy's heart, steady and alive under his palm. "Until recently, part of the price of being Immortal was the chance that you'd run into me. Flavius Lucullus, irritating as he is, is one of the first Immortals I've left alive in more than two thousand years." There'd been two others, one being Cassandra and the other a tall, dark-haired woman with fierce dark eyes who'd refused to come closer to him than ten feet, and who had glared at him until he'd moved on.

Daronwy considered that, still not pulling away. “I cannot judge you for that, for deeds done under the geas of your kind.” What else could he say? Daronwy realized he had not been expecting that level of, well, detail, though the trust it represented touched him. “I hope,” he went on, slowly, “I … don’t even know what I hope, but I do.” He was not used to being at a loss for words. “I hope that what I perceive from what you say, from what I feel, is that you no longer walk within this ‘game’ as occupation, but now only when it comes to you; you do not go to it. Not hound nor huntsman, but wary, wily stag with sharpened tines. Not now seeking slaughter, these last years, of the Undying, or of mortal men. Is that a right understanding?”

"It is," Methos told him, adding gently, "these last few years. I won't lie to you, though, love. I bathed in blood, mortal and Immortal alike, for a very long time." The memories seemed distorted now, as if viewed through glass, and he was no longer sure how sane he'd been -- or if he'd been sane at all.

Daronwy nodded slowly, brows drawn. He was reminded of the spiral tattooed there, at the seat of insight; he made himself put aside what he felt, and Look at Methos, to See him, as he was in the present moment. There was blood at the edges of him, tendrils that ribboned away into mist and nothing; there were blades of every kind and color — antler and iron, copper and flint and bronze, of flame and ice and blue-flash lightning, bright and sharp and appallingly beautiful; and over and under and through all of him were vines and whorls and spirals in the colors of life — blue and green and the golden-brown of leaf-shadow on water, the well at the heart of the world from whence poured love and inspiration. Shaking himself out of the vision, Daronwy found himself looking into Methos’ eyes, full of that very light and color. “By your word, you are not now that man; it is you I have married, not him. If he or his works should return, then may there be cause for judgement on him.” The words came from the same place the earlier oath had, and bore a similar weight. Daronwy felt a shiver course through him as he said them. After a tiny moment of silence he added, with a warding and banishing gesture to the thought and a decisive nod, “and I really hope neither of us needs ever think about that again.”

Deliberately, Daronwy turned his thoughts to the present, the man in his arms, the life they might, somehow, make together, be it nine hours or ninety years. Flavius might yet separate them, whatever they willed. And from what Methos had said, there was no hope of Daronwy finding him in the Summerlands, when it was his time to make that voyage. That was intolerable. _Especially_ if they were to have but hours or days together. “If you cannot come to join me in the Summerlands, then I shall just have to find a way to return to you,” Daronwy said with simple conviction. “Some how, some when. And until that day we have now.”

"I can give you a lifetime." Methos pulled Daronwy closer, wrapping his arms around him. Daronwy wasn't the first mortal who'd sworn to return from the other side. Victims and enemies alike had sworn revenge from beyond the grave, and so had lovers, time and time again. So far, none of them had managed it. "I will give you a lifetime -- and more, if I could."

Daronwy kissed him, tightening his own arms and rolling them over so he could feel all of Methos’ lithe strength and vitality under him, and laughing in delight when Methos used a wrestling trick (that Leontes had tried enough times to teach Daronwy to counter that he recognized it, though he had never quite mastered it, in part because the result was too pleasant to want to avoid, with Leontes, at any rate) to flip him in turn, Methos’ stiffening cock grinding against his own rapidly recovering one, and his weight holding Daronwy anchored. The bubble of incandescent joy in his chest expanded to encompass his entire awareness, and Daronwy broke their kiss only long enough to say, still laughing, “As this is our wedding night, then I am sure we need not spend any of it _sleeping_ , husband and beloved-mine. Do you not agree?”

"I never sleep on my wedding nights," Methos told him gravely, then smiled, for once without the need to worry about whether it made him look too young. He laughed then, the deep happiness in his chest overflowing. "Oh, husband. I will give you such a lifetime."

* * *

Very late, so late it was almost morning, Daronwy woke with Methos in his arms, dark head resting on his shoulder, the pale and vulnerable nape of his neck just visible where his Roman-short hair curled close to his skull. The lamp was guttering low — profligate use of oil, to burn all the hours of a winter night, but what better use for it than to illuminate the loving exploration and consummation of a marriage-bed? Daronwy would never forget first seeing Anluan-Methos erect for him, arching off the bed, coming for him, the sweat on his back gleaming as gold as his torc as Daronwy thrust into his hot, welcoming, eager arse, and felt Methos clench around him, brought again to shattering climax, his own soon to follow; the light in Methos’ eyes as they bound their hearts and hands together; or now, the dim bead of flame in the lamp, the low red glow of coals in the hearth gilding Methos’ face, utterly sated, lax and wrung with pleasure, asleep on his breast. Methos’ hand curled at the hollow of Daronwy’s hip, and both their spent shafts lying limp together. Daronwy did not know how his heart could hold the immensity of his love, his happiness, or how he would bear being parted, could they not find a way to stay together. That did not bear thinking of; not now. Now the night still held, the storm that had brought him to this place, to this man, still howled outside the walls, blinding and bitter. This moment, this hour, this time-out-of-time was theirs, and they would have it, whatever happened.

Loved by one of the Undying, loving him in return. It was a song, a tale, a gift that required only that he accept it, honor it, rejoice in it and hold it mindful and heart-whole, never to be taken lightly, or for granted. Daronwy would make of it a song, a great music, and all who heard or saw or sang it would know there was love in the world, and wonder, and light that did not die.

And one day, Daronwy would stand before Arawen, parted from Methos by death, and would sing for him that song, and discover the means by which he could return, somehow, somewhen, to sit beside his lord, his love, once again.

The lamp hissed and went out, leaving only the faint glow of the coals. Daronwy settled Methos more comfortably in his arms, brushed a kiss to his hair, and let his eyes close again. Morning would come soon for them both.

* * *


	9. Seven Minutes

* * *

For a moment Benjamin looked oddly ageless — old and young and vulnerable all at once. Whatever his questions, they were not light. Lane remembered Adam’s incandescence in the hall, and made a decision. “I can give you,” she flicked a glance at her watch, “seven minutes.” She perched on the make-up stool, giving him her full attention, “If I can answer, I will.”

"Is he happy?" That was the most important question, the one that Methos most needed an answer to.

Not a question she had expected, and no need at all to guess who ‘he’ was, sitting in this dressing room, but easy enough to answer. “Yes. Yes he is.” The answer mattered _so much_ to Benjamin - the way his fingers curled gently around her ipod, with his music on it, the unveiled depth of his eyes, the very stillness with which he was listening. She could give him more than simple truth. “Of course there are times in this industry, in this town, that would make anyone want to tear their hair, and the paparazzi can be a downright menace, but he’s learned how to deal with that, as much as one can, and knows now when to keep the force-shield up and let the negative and the crazy bounce off. He misses being able to just go out with his friends, go to the grocery in his sweats and not have a picture of it on Twitter in 10 minutes sometimes, but he absolutely would not trade that for what he has now: the opportunity to wholly and unreservedly who he is and entertain people, getting to work with some of the best in the business, do things, see things, sing his heart out and have people get it, hear it, take it in and reflect it back in their own amazing ways. So yes, he is happy.” _/And anyone who makes him **unhappy** has all of us, from Monte and Roger and me, to Brad and Danielle, Kris and Allison, to Michael Sarver and the guys who vie to open doors for him to contend with./ _

Methos nodded, a tension he hadn't entirely realized was there sliding from his shoulders. He'd spent a lifetime -- a well-spent lifetime -- making Daronwy happy, or trying to, and hearing that he had managed to hold onto that happiness.…

"I'm glad," he said simply. He was silent for a moment, grateful, before speaking again. "Does he have family?" Daronwy had a father who'd loved him fiercely, and a mother who'd been enough like Methos' last wife to provoke a bittersweet flood of memory, and a handful (though it seemed at times like a horde) of sisters who'd absolutely adored him. He had trouble picturing Adam without them; felt as if he would be somehow bereft if he didn't.

Lane tried to keep the dismay out of her expression, but could do nothing about the startlement. She looked searchingly at Benjamin. It was another genuine, heartfelt question, completely at odds with the palpable connection between him and Adam. How could he not know of Adam’s family, given how close Adam was to all of them, birth and chosen and all the rest of the glamily. It didn’t _fit_ , and that made her wary, if not worried quite yet. Just because she couldn’t think of a reason didn’t mean there wasn’t a good one, but she would really like for it to be a very good reason. “Yes, he does. Leila is helping ride herd on the meet and greet, and Eber and Joyce were in the audience, quite close to you. Neil is back in New York. And of course he has the band, and the dancers, and all the rest of us he calls his ‘glamily.’ Not to mention a number of very close friends, including most of his exes.” She took a breath and straightened her spine just that little bit. Adam _trusted_ her. Trusted her to go with her instincts and ask the right questions. Keeping her voice level and unaccusing, but needing to know, she asked “How do you know Adam — how does Adam know _you_ and you don’t know any of that?” _/Please have a good answer. A believable, preferably provable answer. I don’t want to have to face Adam’s disappointment if you don’t, but better that than see him hurt./_

Methos didn't find it at all difficult to look embarrassed. He'd always thought those who claimed to remember past lives to be particularly idiotic, but the fact remained that Adam did know him, had known him on sight, touched him with a familiarity that two thousand years hadn't managed to erase.

That didn't make it any less embarrassing to explain.

"It's -- oh, bloody hell," he muttered quietly, closing his eyes with a pained expression. Opening them again, he took a deep breath. "It's going to sound absolutely ridiculous, and if someone told me the same thing I'd think they were a liar, or that they'd gone soft in the head. Just -- as a warning." He looked down at his hands, rubbing a thumb over the invisible scar where he'd once sliced his hand open for Christine Salzer. "About a month ago, I took a flight back from Japan with two teenaged female seatmates who couldn't talk about anything but Adam's being on Idol that night. So I got home and put the television on for the noise, and went to make dinner. And -- then Adam started singing." He bit his lip, then pressed forward. "And I knew him -- I mean, I knew his voice. Not like I'd heard it somewhere before, because I hadn't -- I've been in Tibet for most of the past four years, and I was in Cambodia for three years before that, and I don't really pay attention to the radio anyway, or to the TV -" He shrugged slightly, letting his discomfort show. "Anyway. I knew his voice like - like it was part of me, somehow, and when I went into the livingroom and saw him, I knew him, too."

Lane nodded, not interrupting. His very embarrassment was a persuasive argument that he was telling the truth, personal truth if not otherwise provable truth. She knew enough people who believed fervently in past lives and other forms of interaction with the world that on the face of it ranged from merely odd and eccentric to extremely unlikely and difficult to wrap one’s mind around. Past lives were on the practically ordinary end.

Methos kept his gaze fixed on his hands, though he badly wanted to look up and see how she was reacting. "I thought I was losing my mind. I started having dreams about him -- not that kind of dream," he assured her. "Just -- doing things with him. Eating dinner, or talking, or just sitting. I really thought I was going mad. So I bought a ticket, just to see -- I don't know. I suppose I thought that if I saw him in person, I'd figure out that I'd met him somewhere, and my subconscious would stop bothering me over it, or something like that, anyway. And I came to the show, and he knew me too." Methos shook his head, still not quite able to believe it. "I don't know how. I've never taken this kind of thing seriously, not even a little bit -- but he remembers me." Finally, he dared to look up at Lane, wondering if she was about to have security called and him thrown out into the street. He didn't think he'd be able to blame her if she did.

"Actually -" He got up, putting the iPod carefully down on the table. "I think - I should probably go." He was crazy to have come here, and crazier for staying. Daronwy had been able to make a place for Methos in his life, but even hoping for the same thing here was beyond ridiculous. It wasn't even fair to ask him. Adam was the last person on earth who should be touched, even peripherally, by the Game or by the violence that was such a part of Immortal lives even without it. "Tell Adam I have an early class tomorrow that I've no lesson plan for; if he wants -- I mean -- I teach engineering, at Cal-Tech." He smiled awkwardly, glancing at the door. Adam would mean to call and wouldn't, or he would and Methos wouldn't call back, and Methos would get to know that he was happy and _safe_ , even if he did feel a little hurt.

Lane had been watching him closely enough that she saw the tiny tremble in his fingers as he made himself let go of the player as if it were glass, and precious. Saw the way his breath shortened and his already fair skin went paler. He’d revealed more of himself than he had wanted or even meant, because Adam really was that important to him. At this point objective truth was irrelevant, it was the subjective that mattered. Benjamin was frightened, feeling vulnerable and well on his way to a panic attack, if she was any judge. He’d only glanced at the door, he hadn’t yet moved toward it. She could work with that.

(The back of her mind was already filing ‘engineering’ and ‘Cal-Tech’ — both of which explained rather a lot, not the least the acute embarrassment at admitting to such an unscientific experience. She could, and would, check up on that, but for now she would take it as given.)

“Benjamin,” She said firmly, standing up. She hoped that would be enough to cut through the fog of distress/dismay she could practically see building. For a brief moment she wondered if that name was even the right/best one for this, and put that aside. Benjamin was the name she had. “ _Breathe_. Now look at me.” She waited until she had his eyes, his attention, and went on, more gently, but no less yielding. “I believe you. I’m sure Adam believes you.” The edge of actual panic was dulling under her calm certainty. Good. He might be highly strung, but he wasn’t usually ruled by it. “But I won’t be your messenger, not like that, with that message. If that’s how you want to leave it between you, you are going to have to tell him yourself.” She saw that register, and immediately moved to soften the blow and offer a way out. “I don’t think you should leave, and I hope you won’t, for Adam’s sake. For your own sake.” Now she moved close enough to venture a touch, just fingertips to the back of his tight clenched hand. “Please.”

The touch of Lane's hand -- compassionate, undemanding -- almost undid Benjamin, and Methos, too. He sank down into his seat, burying his face in his fingers.

"I don't entirely know that I believe it," he muttered. "Do you have any idea how close I came to checking myself into a mental institution? Until this month, I had only the vaguest idea as to what American Idol _was_ ; I certainly didn't know that Adam had won it, or even that he existed."

“Actually, Adam was runner-up for his season, but he certainly won in the greater scheme of things.” Lane said, as one who liked accuracy. It was no surprise he thought so, given the way the media often either failed to mention that detail or simply got it wrong themselves. She sat down on the couch next to Benjamin, near but not quite touching. She didn’t have a lot of time before she needed to attend to other things, but there was enough for this. “I would say there is enough to be going on with in favor of belief. But what really matters is now, and going forward. Now you do know he exists, and he knows you do.”

"You don't think I've gone completely mad, then?" Methos chuckles ruefully. "I suppose that's something. Maybe eventually I'll stop thinking it too." He looks over at her. "It's not just me, though. He remembers me, too. So unless it's mass hysteria, I owe several of my students a sincere apology." He chuckles. "One of the things I do with my freshman classes is to demonstrate several techniques used by ancient engineers to build things like the aqueducts, or the pyramids, or Stonehenge. More than one of them has tried to insist that they knew how to do it already, thanks to past life experiences, and should be excused from that part of the course -- largely because it requires physical labour."

“No, I don’t think you are mad. Not even a little bit.” Lane smiled back, glad to hear his chuckle. “Nor does Adam. If he recognized you, it was for real. He’s very good at remembering people and faces. And as for your students, I don’t think you owe them an apology at all — if they really knew how, they should be all the more eager to demonstrate, not get out of it.” She glanced again at the time, and back up to his face. “Will you be alright now? Can I trust you to stay here until Adam gets back?”

Methos exhaled shakily. "I'm all right. And I'll stay until Adam gets back." He dredged up a smile, though it was rather weak. "I promise." Methos' own word was of dubious value, but Benjamin's promises were iron-clad.

“Good,” Lane said, nodding in acknowledgement. Benjamin’s sincerity was audible. “Thank you.” She stood, then reached out to touch his hand again. “It will be ok. And if you need anything, pretty much anyone in the hall or the greenroom can get me a message.” She smiled at him again before going out the door and closing it gently behind her.

* * *


	10. Interlude in Snow-light

* * *

There sits a man, thought Leontes, observing Anluan seat himself at the breakfast table and smile at the girl serving him, who has had Daronwy's prodigious cock up his arse, to his very great enjoyment. Both of their enjoyment. Daronwy was both radiantly happy and nearly shy, a look Leontes had not before seen in their five years’ acquaintance. Flavius, on the other hand, was sour-faced and disgruntled, as though he had woken up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Not happy at all. Leontes could not find it in himself to care. Flavius had a sufficient sense of social self-preservation that he was unlikely to strike one of his own slaves in public, much less Metellus’s, for no better reason than that the storm was still howling about the house, keeping them all inside.

The girl finished serving the pottage and she and the boy with the morning-meat both vanished out the door none the worse for Flavius’ glower. Leontes was the only slave still in the room. Anluan apparently did not hold to the custom of an individual attendant for informal meals, and Leontes wondered if perhaps breakfast was ordinarily even more casual when there were no guests to entertain. He could easily imagine (for example) Anluan and Daronwy breaking their fast without ever leaving the bed, much less the room, were there not duties to see to. Whatever had passed between them last night had been more than a mere romp in the furs, an observation that Rhian, Anluan’s Watcher, agreed with.

Breakfast set the tone for the day, and indeed for the entire duration of the storm, which was the longest and fiercest the area had known in the memory of the elders of the household. For two more nights the snow flew and the wind rose and fell in howls and moans, shrieks and whispers about the house. All the folk who tended the near fields and flocks gathered within the compound walls with their families and animals, bringing their stores of wood and grain. It was hoped that the herdsmen and shepherds who dwelled further had shelter, fire and food, but it would be impossible to know until the storm eased. In the outbuildings, the courtyard and even the great hall, people went quietly about the tasks of daily life, spinning, weaving, making and mending. Keeping busy, keeping warm.

Daronwy could reliably be found in Anluan’s company, playing different board games — Roman Kings, backgammon, senet (which Leontes had only heard of, never seen), and a game Daronwy taught Anluan, played with blue and white glass stones and a single white bead, that Leontes did not know the name of — reading, working on business of the estate, or simply talking. Flavius, after finding Anluan uninterested in knucklebones or dice or any other pastime of chance, with or hopefully without Daronwy’s presence, kept largely to the gracious rooms he had been given to guest in, finding no occupation satisfying for long and growing more and more irritable by the hour. Finally he would take himself off to the long room at the back of the house that Anluan had given him leave to use for exercise, and practiced sword-forms with Cleon and the horse-master.

After the main business of the day, the household baths were reserved for Flavius’ use for an hour. Anluan and Daronwy would bathe together in Anluan’s private bath, and — Rhian reported with a knowing grin — the bathing-oils were like to need replenishment in short order. It took no effort at all to imagine them cleaning each other, skin gleaming in the lamplight, starting out teasingly chaste and swiftly becoming slickly carnal. Leontes knew the heat and delight that Daronwy’s affectionate hands and attention could bring, the nearly overwhelming pleasure of a merely friendly fuck. Daronwy with his heart engaged, loved and loving, would only be more generous, more giving, and all the more overwhelming. For all Anluan’s relative youth, he did seem a worthy match for Daronwy, both of them growing steadily brighter with the kind of happiness love gave. Leontes was happy for them both, and thinking of them in the bath together had already given considerable fuel to Leontes’ own masturbatory fantasies.

(The Watchers judged that Anluan was not much older than he appeared — late in his second decade, even as Daronwy was — though they did not have a date for his first death, nor did they know for certain who his teacher had been. Leontes thought it possible his teacher was Rameses, or the Old Man of Lutetia, though he could have stayed no more than a year or two with either. Josephus the Elder believed that Anluan was Caius Tiberius Metellus, (who no-one else believed had been immortal at all) and that Caius had been Remus, known to Marcus Constantine, and thus considerably older than he appeared, but no-one paid attention to Josephus’ wild theories, and the Rector Custos refused to have them written into the Chronicles. Certainly Anluan acted no older than he generally was thought to be. Unlike Flavius, who occasionally did betray both his plebian origins and his actually age, though only to someone who knew to look.)

The evenings were more festive, held in the great hall with the plebians and slaves, everyone being fed from the villa kitchens, Anluan, Daronwy and Flavius at the same raised table as the first night. Entertainment came in the form of various locals with various talents - one man could walk backward on his hands, another told riddles, hand-drums and reed-pipes and assorted instrument with strings appeared, and people danced in lines and rings, and at the high point of the evening, Daronwy would sing. He sang new things every night, tales and songs that Flavius’ people had never heard, because Flavius had not liked Daronwy to perform, preferring gymnasts and wrestlers, grotesques and conjurers for his entertainment.

And every night, Anluan and Daronwy would go down the passage together to Anluan’s apartments, and Flavius would retire to the guest-quarters, storm-faced and calling for Tamara. Tamara would stay an hour, while everyone else would tiptoe about. Her leaving was the signal that Flavius was asleep, and all could breathe more easily until morning, when the cycle began again. All in all, Leontes was enjoying himself, Daronwy was free from Flavius’ house-rules and disapproval, and everyone was warm and well cared for out of the storm. He would be sorry to leave when the time came.

* * *


	11. Connections

* * *

Adam made his way through the happy energy of the post-show festivities, shaking hands, giving hugs, signing the various things people asked for, taking pictures. Lane had vanished and eventually reappeared at his shoulder to let him know everything was good. He put the whole complex of thought and feeling that had Methos-Benjamin-Dawson at its center to the side to process soon-but-not-right-now, giving his attention to the people he was interacting with. Circulating, not ‘mingling’. His friends noticed, but didn’t press. They’d raised a good amount of money with this concert, no disasters and lots of fun and good stuff on the stage. There were many friends to see, hug, tease and thank, and all the people it would be good/wise/useful/polite for him to greet and thank as well. Adam really did like this part of the job, and the happy after-performance energy was always a boost, even when there were other things going on.

Finally the gathering was shifting from backstage semi-official to after party casual, and after he hugged Carmit and was tackle-hugged by Leo and Terrance, he smiled and waved and slipped back to the dressing room. He had a suite in the hotel next door, his initial plan to party and mingle and see what happened — no need to go anywhere but up the elevator, with or without company, and nothing on the schedule at all for the next couple of days. Now he was even happier to have the suite, because it meant, should Methos-Benjamin be ok with the idea, that they could go there, neutral space, private space, and talk. See what came next. Where they went from here.

Adam was not truly afraid that Methos would be gone when he got back to the dressing room, but he was very happy indeed to open the door and see him still there, stretched out on the couch with a mug of tea within reach and listening to something from the acoustic EP on Lane’s iPod. (Adam recognized the case.)

Methos looked up when the door opened, and couldn't keep from smiling when he saw Adam. Sitting up, he took the earbuds out and put the iPod down on the table next to his tea before standing.

"Hi," he said, still smiling, and unsure of his footing.

Adam closed the door and took a breath, dropping abruptly out of Adam the Rock-star and back into just-Adam. Methos-Benjamin looked about as uncertain as Adam felt. But there was still that sense of layered depth, still that undefinable feeling of connection. Not to mention a growing sense of attraction. “Hi,” Adam replied, “Thank you. For staying. Do you know what sign you are?” There was a tiny moment of silence before Adam went on, ruefully, “Was that out loud? That was out loud. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ask you that, though I do want to know. I’m an Aquarius, Libra rising, moon in Aries. Lane told me about Tibet and all.” Adam stopped and took another breath. There was no reason to be nervous now, when he hadn’t been earlier. “Anyway. Hi. I hope you liked what you were hearing.” He gestured vaguely toward the iPod and smiled, hoping the flutter in his stomach was not visible on his face.

"I did." Adam poured himself into the music, and Methos had heard him there, true and real and so very, very alive. It had been Daronwy all over again, bridging a gap two thousand years wide, the soul of him the same despite the differences made by being Adam. "Very much. And I have no idea what sign I am." He smiled ruefully. "I'm not exactly sure how old I am, and I have no idea what time of year I was born."

Adam nodded. That made sense. He wasn’t quite in a place where he was ready to really think about the fact that two thousand was a minimum age, not a maximum. He moved over to the counter and began putting the last few things away into pouches and into his back-pack. Sutan had been in and done his usual clean sweep of makeup and product, and taken care of the outfit Adam had worn on stage as well. One of the amusing perks of having ‘people’. “It’s not super important, I just like to know. And I have no filter, not really. Anything about me you are burning to know? I was thinking; I’m staying at the hotel tonight, where the after-party is, and we could just go up to the suite, instead of hanging out here, or even going to the party. Unless you’d like to go to the party. Lane did order food for us, it will be there.” Everything that went with him was packed up, the rest the crew would take care of. Adam looked over at Methos. “Methos?” The name tasted both strange and familiar on his tongue, though he needed to make sure he used Benjamin in public, or any time they were not alone. “Is that ok with you?”

"It's fine with me." Methos couldn't help laughing. Daronwy had done the same thing when he was nervous or excited, words tumbling over one another as if his mouth were trying to keep up with his mind. "Adam. Breathe." Oddly enough, the feelings of uncertainty, of awkwardness, had vanished. Methos felt at home, in a way that he hadn't since Alexa's death. "We've got time." Even as he said it, there was a pang in his chest. They had time -- but Adam was mortal, even as Daronwy had been, so that time was of necessity limited. Putting that aside, Methos smiled at Adam. "You know, I've called myself Adam, in one form or another, more than once? I called myself Adam Pierson, actually, before I switched to Benjamin. It's still my middle name."

Adam laughed, “Mine’s ‘Mitchel.” He did breathe, and then he was centered again, not nervous but excited, that steady little stream of energy, sparkling and bright. “Good. Good we have time.” Impulsively, Adam reached out to take Methos’ hand and give it a squeeze. Methos’ fingers were long and strong. “I hope you’ll explain some about that whole … being alive so long thing, how it works. But obviously not until we’re alone.” Adam grabbed his pack, and grinned. “Let’s get out of here.”

* * *


	12. Whirlwind

* * *

The storm had finally broken the night before, the wind quieting and the clouds thinning enough for the moon to cast fitful gleams on the mounds and sheets of snow. It was as if the wind had stilled to hear Daronwy sing that third night, as it had the first. The last piece of the evening, his heart poured out in song. Solemnity and solidity, solidarity, of the elements: the earth sleeping underfoot, the sky tumbling above, the fire in hearth and heart, the water of life, blood spilled and steady beating, wine and spring, snowmelt and tears. The words were Latin, stately and smooth, but the music was his own, with the memory of pipes and drums and the murmurous crowd gathered at the Great Circle at midsummer, the stillness of trees and the breathless depth of the Longest Night, the shout of the sun returning after long travail. It was a piece that came from Daronwy’s depths, the seat of his bardship. _Be who **you** are_ it said, _be yourself, be your best self, slave or free, lord or goat herd. Love is the law, not pettyness and hate._ Then bringing it all down, soft, quiet, secure against the storm. Safe and sound in this place, this high-raftered hall of plenty and harmony, Anluan’s domain.

The villa had stayed snug throughout, the courtyard and paths to the village and animal-pens kept clear by steady work of Anluan’s people. One of the outbuildings had collapsed under the snow-load, but the repairs would have to wait until things thawed a little. At least no-one had been hurt, and the stores would keep, inaccessible as they were. The round-houses had stood the weather admirably, their steep cone roofs shedding the snow, and the thick wattled walls holding the heat of the fires in the central hearths. Daronwy and Methos (though he needed to remember to call him Anluan, or more properly Anluan Metellus, not by his true-name) had stood in the courtyard as the sweepers were finishing clearing the flags in the fast-fading winter twilight, and it seemed unthinkable that Daronwy had been there less than a week, so right standing with Anluan was. He had remarked — and been seconded by the farm-manager and chief overseer who had a good weather-sense — that the next day would be far too cold for any traveling, but that Anluan would be able to take a horse out and see to those of his people that lived by the more distant fields, make sure that they had what they needed.

Flavius Lucullus, increasingly pompous with his critique of Anluan’s estate management, had poo-poohed the idea that the field-slaves should be given any thought, when it was obvious to him that he, and all his people, including, of course, the hostage, would be setting out in the morning for Flavius’ lands, and past time too. Thanking you all the same for your hospitality, young Metellus.

The day dawned just as predicted, with the thin winter sun shining a dazzling light on a sheen of ice atop the snow, with the water in the outer well frozen hard. The inner courtyard well, fed by the hot-spring, was not iced over, and the stones and overhanging tree were a tracery of ice and hoarfrost from the frozen steam, eerily beautiful. Outside the walls and outbuildings the snow stretched in unbroken swaths, hip and shoulder deep in places, ground scoured to a skim of ice in others. The air was like knives, stinging any exposed skin and sharp in the lungs. No one was leaving Metellus’ house that day, nor likely the next several. Now it was even more important that the field-hands and those caring for the distant flocks be seen too, and all brought in if necessary.

Anluan and his chief overseer set off immediately after breakfast. Methos found a moment to pull Daronwy around a corner out of sight and kiss him, and said “I wish I could have you come with me, but there is no help for it. Do watch out for Flavius, he is not at all happy at being thwarted in his desire to leave.”

“I will.” Daronwy did indeed recognize the Flavius in a temper of frustration, and hoped to avoid him entirely if he could. He kissed Methos back. “Have a care yourself. I love you.”

Daronwy watched him ride past the wall, and turned to re-enter the house. Anluan had shown him all over the building, pointing out the various rooms, and for some little while, Daronwy wandered, enjoying looking at the fine-painted scenes in the formal hall, the household slaves greeting him with smiles as they went about their duties. But the great rooms were chilly away from the fires, and presently Daronwy found himself in the smaller room Methos used as an office. The narrow windows looked south, warm even in winter, and the fire made the room quite comfortable. There were chairs and a writing-table, and one chest for scrolls with another for codices, an unheard-of wealth of books. Methos had shown him the trick of the fastening, which Daronwy had taken as the gift of trust it was. But rather than admire or begin to make his way through one of the books, Daronwy took out a set of the wax tablets and a stylus, settling himself near a window, where the light was clear. He began to work out a latin verse for the song he planned to sing tonight after dinner. It would be a new piece, praising the house, and the good master of the house, with, he supposed (though his heart was certainly not in that part) a verse to praise the noble guest as well.

* * *

The room wasn't one Flavius had seen before, but it was clearly the center of Anluan Metellus' life. There was a spare elegance about the space — beautifully carved chairs, richly coloured tapestries, and thick luxurious rugs. It was the sort of tasteful display of wealth that Flavius knew subconsciously that he would never be able to achieve — nothing about it was gaudy or ostenatious, but all of it was quietly expensive — and Daronwy ap Athaon was sitting a chair near the window, writing and humming to himself as if he belonged there. He looked up as Flavius came in, and the startled pleasure on his face faded into wary dismay. After a polite nod, he went back to his tablets, pulling his feet up into the chair with him. "You've certainly gotten comfortable here." Flavius curled his lip, looking contemptuously at Daronwy. "Apparently, the trappings of civilization aren't all that bad when they're luxurious. Or when they come with a Roman who's willing to bend over for you whenever you ask."

 _/You never invited me to make use of your public rooms,/_ thought Daronwy, almost irrelevantly, as his blood went chill and his inner self squeezed tight. _/You never wanted me in your presence, only the idea of me, ‘the Hostage’, to lend you status and give you bragging rights and a voice in council./_ He knew Flavius needed no facts for his grievances, needed no more than the possibility of a slight to take offense. He had hoped to avoid Flavius until Methos returned, avoid being ever alone with him at all, thinking no further than this day of happiness, and not to when he would, perforce, be required to return to what now would be little better than a slave’s durance, instead of the honored place that served to ease relations between two peoples.

Gently, Daronwy closed the tablets and put them on the windowsill with the stylus, away from harm. For oh, one way or another harm would be done. Flavius had a temper, and never let go a grudge. Still, perhaps wrath could be turned, if only for an hour. Daronwy took a breath and said, pacifically, raising his face to Flavius but not looking him in the eye, a picture of conciliation, “I have always found your house comfortable and well-appointed.” The phrase properly wanted an honorific, but Daronwy could not bring his tongue to use one. He was even speaking truth: it was not the house that made living under Flavius a penance.

"Even without a half-breed Roman to play your whore?" Flavius' smile was darkly unpleasant, especially since there was actual humour in it.

 _/That is twice he has insulted Anluan, in his own house./_ Daronwy drew another breath, his mind in the clear, cold place that sped thought, that in another moment would slow the rest of the world. He could see a number of possibilities running from this moment, and the threads that lead to it. It mattered that he hold to his own honor and word, so he would return a soft answer once more, though it would not likely serve. Flavius had no ear for music, and was not moved by it. Daronwy uncurled from the chair and looked Flavius in the eye. “What is given with dignity and honor must always be received with grace.” Never mind that he spoke now of how Anluan had received him, before ever they had looked at one another, as a Hostage and Bard. Flavius would hear what he would.

Flavius laughed, much in the same fashion as a man who has just heard a dirty joke. "Funny -- I never thought that there was much dignity involved in what you've been giving him. Is he that graceful, then, when he's on his knees sucking your cock? Or when he's bent over, taking it up the ass?"

 _/And the third insult to kin or clan shall be met with whatsoever keen edge may best suit, word or wit or whetted blade./_ Daronwy pressed his lips together and his eyes flashed. He felt cold all over, and almost light-headed. He stood, slowly, deliberately, straightening his spine, settling his shoulders. The very fire in the hearth seemed frozen on the stones. He spoke very clearly and precisely, knowing the words would cut. "You really don't like seeing a Celt buggering a Roman, do you?” _/Much less loving one/_ Daronwy looked Flavius up and down with chill and Seeing eyes: he was puffed and red with anger, and his hands were meaty fists. “You small man, is it that you want my attention for yourself? Is it that _you_ want to be the Roman I'm buggering?” He’d meant to only think that, not say it, but said it was, and Daronwy meant every syllable. “I wouldn’t touch you, my Word on it.”

Flavius' hand lashed out with blinding speed, striking Daronwy hard across the mouth. He grabbed Daronwy by the wrist with bruising force and jerked the younger man to him. "Don't confuse me with your half-breed catamite," he snarled furiously, his other hand seizing Daronwy's hair and pulling his head brutally backwards. "I'm a real Roman -- and you're about to learn the difference." Leaning in, his mouth to Daronwy's ear, he added, "Real Romans **do** the buggering."

Daronwy went quite, quite still. He had known Flavius had a temper, had known as the words left his mouth that violence might result, but that had not prepared him for the fact of it. Had not prepared him for the sick horror of Flavius’ hands on him, grinding the bones of his wrist against each other, and jerking his head backwards, scalp burning with the pull on his hair, his neck exposed and vulnerable, his breath caught in his throat. Had not begun to prepare him for the feel of Flavius’ cock hardening against his hip, an instrument of violence, to be used as a weapon. No, and no, and no again. Flavius had not quite gotten him off-balance; purely an advantage of Daronwy’s inches, and Daronwy was just gathering himself to twist away from Flavius’ movement to shove him face-down onto the table when a dark flicker caught his eye. Anluan, back from tending his lands and seeing to his people — no, whoever that was looking out from that grim visage was not Anluan, nor the Methos whose bed and love he shared, but a swift and terrible force, blue-bright and as coldly, fiercely angry as Daronwy had ever seen a man. Furious for him, not at him; all that wrath bent on Flavius. But Methos was still some steps away, however fast he moved, and Flavius had not seen him yet. Daronwy could — would — make sure he did not. He allowed a thin sound to escape his throat and felt Flavius’ hands clench harder, the look in his eyes avid, and kept himself from trying to wrench away for the interminable seconds it took Methos to cross the room and take hold of Flavius with iron hands and rip him off Daronwy.

Released, Daronwy stumbled into the table, as Methos wrestled Flavius effortlessly up and slammed his back against the wall between the windows. He had his forearm pressed against Flavius’ throat, a glittering knife pricking through the cloth at Flavius’ kidney, and a brutal knee to the groin before Daronwy could catch his breath. Methos looked as though he wanted nothing more than to cut Flavius’ throat from ear to ear.

"Tell me," Methos hissed in a dark voice, flint and bone, such as Arawen himself might use, "why I should not take your head here and now." He twisted the knife a little bit, drawing a sharp breath from Flavius. "Or I could take something else. I wonder how long it would take them to grow back?"

Daronwy reached out instinctively, fingers catching the cloth of Methos’ sleeve. “No,” a thread of sound, as his breath tried to return to his lungs. Then stronger, “Me- _my husband_ , no. Not here. Not like this.” Methos’ eyes were as black and cold as the space behind the stars. “Please.”

Methos turned his head to look at Daronwy. His lower lip was split and bleeding: after seeing it, it was all Methos could do not to use the knife he held. Only Daronwy's words, and the light touch on his arm, stayed his hand. He looked back at Flavius Lucullus. The man was wide-eyed and pale, and the fear in his expression satisfied something dark and hungry in Methos' soul. After a long moment, he nodded and stepped back. "Flavius Portius Lucullus, my name is Methos, and I challenge you." It was a more formal challenge than he generally bothered with, but on this occasion, it felt merited.

"Get your sword. Now. Before I decide not to wait."

Daronwy knew a wide range of vocal techniques, but he had never before heard such a flat, cold, _deadly_ voice. Not Arawen speaking, but Arawen’s sword, honed sharp and pitiless. Flavius, still curled a little around his balls (and Daronwy could find no pity in himself for that injury, especially since it would be gone by the time he bothered to straighten) was the color of clay putty, the wall alone holding him up. He seemed to have shrunk in his clothes, and Daronwy could believe in that moment that Flavius was indeed three centuries old with the bones of his skull visible under bloodless skin. Then Flavius pulled himself together, straightening and putting on his patrician face. His hands trembled until he tucked them into the fold of his dalmatica.

“My sword is with my traveling chests. Where shall we meet?” If nothing else, Daronwy had to give the man credit for courage. Of course, Daronwy was also aware that did Flavius not meet Methos’ Challenge, he would be cut down without hesitation. It was not thing he had understood when Methos had told him, their wedding night, nor did he precisely understand it now, but it was real to him in a way it had not been then. No doubt the fight would be illuminating as well. There was an obscure comfort in seeing Flavius determine to die a Roman and not a cur, despite what he had been about to do.

Methos’ voice was still edged with that inhuman note, “The lower terrace behind the house. Elisedd will show you. Elisedd!” he called, and as if conjured, the elder of the Steward and head overseer’s three sons appeared at the door, tall and bright-eyed. “See Flavius Lucullus collects his weapon, and show him to the in-bye field behind the stables. Five minutes.”

“Yessir!” the young man said promptly.

Flavius tightened his mouth and gave Methos a stiff nod. His attempt at a regal stride toward the door missed only a little under Methos’ icy gaze. Daronwy was certain that Flavius had entirely forgotten his own existence as he vanished through the door with Elisedd close behind.

But Methos had not. Daronwy looked as him across the room. For a moment the distance seemed immense, a chasm of age and anger, of Undying difference. Daronwy bit his lip, and realized for the first time that it was bleeding. Flavius’ seal-ring had cut it when he struck him. The blood was bitter and metallic on his tongue. As if now given permission, his wrist began to ache sharply, pain radiating to his fingers, and his scalp burned from where his hair had been pulled. No doubt other pains would make themselves known. At least it was his left wrist, not his right. Bardic-trained memory would be no favor either. Daronwy closed his eyes and took three deliberate and centering breaths, pushing the whole to the back of his mind. Later. He would deal with it later. Now the battle was still joined, and he had duty to do and a role to fill.

When he opened his eyes, would he still see the implacable, Undying killer in the form of his husband, or the man he had married? Methos. Anluan. The very face of the lord of the dead. All those things, and undoubtably more, part of him. The flame in Daronwy’s heart did not falter, and oh, he was glad for that Methos had returned when he did. Indeed Daronwy had no wish to unmake his vow. But it did not make the danger of him any less, for that Daronwy had seen more of it. Another breath and he looked up. Methos’ face was yet another he had not before seen: still carved of flint, and fierce-eyed, but the emotion in them burned hot, not cold. Concern was there, and care, not the vast rage of before, though the fury was not gone; overlaid, not banished. He had taken a step toward Daronwy, and the gulf was vanished, though Daronwy would remember it, to think through later.

“Thank you,” Daronwy said, simply. He took a step forward himself, reaching to touch … what? The hands that had moved pieces on boards, lit fires in Daronwy’s flesh, that would presently wield a sword with intent to kill? The mouth, lips still folded thin and white, that kissed with passion, gentle and fierce and shaped the voice that spoke words of love and words of death and desolation. Daronwy’s fingers seemed to know better than his mind and lighted on Methos’ tunica, over his heart, a heart galloping under his ribs. He could think of nothing more to say. Nothing he could say would change Methos’ purpose, nor did he particularly wish that purpose changed, though Daronwy did hope that Methos would not be fighting in anger, with the rage that had filled the air like the wind of the Wild Hunt, and just as chaotic and uncontrolled.

"Don't." Methos closed his eyes, lifting his own hand to rest over Daronwy's. "Don't thank me." He should have done this the first day, or at the very least when Flavius began to show the first signs of losing control of his temper. If he had, Daronwy wouldn't be standing in front of him, mouth bruised and bleeding. Methos opened his eyes and forced himself to look at the damage. It was like deliberately sticking his hand into a fire, and twice as painful. He lifted his other hand to cradle the uninjured side of Daronwy's face. "Did he hurt you anywhere else? I'll slice him to pieces from the feet down and feed him to the dogs if you give me permission." He was almost trembling with the urge to do just that, or worse, and couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted to kill a specific person so very badly.

Methos’ hands felt no different than it had that morning, except for the faint quiver of emotion, and that his fingers were colder than they were wont to be. Daronwy let his left hand rise to cover Methos’ at his cheek. It was no matter that the movement hurt, or that if his wrist was not yet showing bruised it soon would. Daronwy was not going to lie, but that didn’t matter, not at the moment. His wrist, his scalp, his lip, all would heal, if not as fast as if they had happened to Methos. “I will thank you, for stopping as I asked,” he said, firmly, even though he was not entirely certain his voice would obey him. “ He hurt nothing that matters.” _/You were in time, and I am grateful for that./_

The most frightening thing about what Methos was offering was that he meant precisely what he was saying, as if it were an unremarkable response. For a horrifying moment, Daronwy had an image of the kind of world where that kind of extravagant, cold violence was ordinary, and he shivered. But Methos had offered, not demanded, and his hands were warming on and under Daronwy’s own. Daronwy hoped, trusted — that had not altered — that asking Daronwy’s leave meant he would be ruled in this by Daronwy’s will. He took a centering breath, putting the distress of what succumbing to that kind of violence would be like to do to them firmly from his mind. “No, I do not want you to do that. What I do want,” finally his throat had eased, the words coming right, “is that you fight him, clean and fair and according to the rules of the Game as you explained. I do not want you to meet him in anger, and I most especially do not want to lose you to that dark place I see in your eyes still.” Daronwy curled his fingers more firmly around Methos’ hand, spread his fingers wider over Methos’ heart, feeling heat gather in both palms, will manifest as fire. “I do not want to lose you at all. And I _will_ stand Witness.”

Methos took a shuddering breath, but finally he nodded. "I will do as you ask," he swore, "save for banishing my anger. I'll not let it hinder me," he added, seeing Daronwy's expression, "or cost me the fight, but I'll not put it aside." That darkness Daronwy feared so much was an emotionless place, and all too easy to return to.

Daronwy almost protested, but then he realized that indeed the anger that he could feel present and immediate in Methos — the vibration in his bones like a plucked string, the race of his heart — was not the danger. The darkness was where the sword-voice had come from, pitiless and implacable and distant from all feeling. If Methos needed the burn of anger to counter that, then Daronwy could accept it. He nodded in turn, and said gravely, “I hear and agree.” More than anything just then, Daronwy wanted to fold Methos in his arms, hold and be held by his beloved, until the lumps of ice in his belly stopped churning and melted; until his knees found their strength again, and ceased trying to knock together. They did not have time for that.

Instead, Daronwy wet his lip, tasting again the sharp sting of the cut, and leaned forward to cup the back of Methos’ head and press a kiss between his brows before stepping reluctantly back. “What can I do to help you prepare?”

"I'm always prepared for this," Methos said quietly. "An Immortal who isn't won't see more than a century at the outside." He reached out, catching hold of Daronwy's hand. "I'm sorry." He wasn't sure if he was apologizing for the violence of Immortality or the darkness in his own soul, or for being too late, so that Daronwy had both pushed directly into his face. "I had hoped that this part of it -- that this part of _me_ \-- would never touch you."

Astonishingly, Daronwy discovered he wanted to laugh, but he suppressed the urge. In some ways they could practically read each other’s thoughts, despite the short time they had actually known each other, and yet they were still prone to very simple misunderstandings. “I was thinking of the immediate practicalities, actually, like do you want me to hold your cloak. And, I would rather you met Flavius with your best sword, not a dagger. Though I don’t doubt you could win with it, any more than I doubt you are otherwise ready.” Daronwy gripped Methos’ hand, ignoring the ache of his wrist and went on, recognizing the impulse to laugh as a defense against the fear. “Do not apologize. You gave me the choice, that first night, and I chose, _choose_ to take the whole of you, the difficult and the dangerous and the delightful all. I regret only that you must always live with this as a part of you, not that I must witness it.” _/And I will be wroth indeed do you let Flavius take you from me where I cannot follow, since you say the Summerlands are closed to you, and there is no afterlife for the Undying./_ But that was a thought Daronwy would not say aloud.

"Daronwy --" Methos' voice caught, and he closed his eyes, momentarily overwhelmed by a ferocity of emotion that made his heart feel as if it might burst. Opening them again, he lifted a hand to cradle Daronwy's face. "You do not have to stand witness to this. It's custom to fight out of mortal view, and though I'll gladly break that custom so that you can watch him die, I want you to know that you have no obligation either way."

Part of him wanted to keep Daronwy as far from the fight as possible, to keep him from seeing the Quickening, or even its aftermath. The rest of him, selfishly wanted Daronwy near, even in the face of Quickening and death.

“I do,” Daronwy said, leaning into the caress, but not letting it sway him. “It is less to watch him die, than to see you live that I will witness. The gods are capricious, and I _will not_ have it happen that you be taken from me and I not there.” Daronwy knew he had to be there, needed to be there. “And how can I sing your song aright if I do not Know what you do? How can I sing Flavius’ death if I do not See how he dies? Even if naught but earth and sky might hear that song. I claim bard-right to witness, not just husband-right.”

"Bards have no witness-rights when it comes to Immortals," Methos said gently. "There are already mortals whose task it is to bear that witness, and to keep silent about the memories they preserve, but I would not have you join their ranks, nor be governed by their laws." He brought Daronwy's hand to his lips, kissing the center of his palm. "Watch for your own sake, or for mine if you so desire, but witness will be borne whether you do or no."

Daronwy’s brows rose at the idea of people tasked to watch the Undying, though he supposed he could see the point of it. He dismissed entirely the thought of him joining them, whatever their rules might be. “It is for my sake, yours, and ours together that I must be there.” They were speaking a little at cross-purpose, Daronwy felt, and now was not the time to untangle that. He could tell that there was a real concern under Methos’ words, but not quite what it was. And whatever it was, it wasn’t going to change Daronwy’s mind. “The songs I make are my own, as I am a bard, called and hallowed. Were this simple insult-challenge it would be mine to witness; that it is more does not, by my understanding, lessen that right.” He kissed Methos’ palm in turn. “I am coming with you. I shall not interfere.”

Methos nodded, closing his eyes for a long moment. He wanted to pull Daronwy into his arms, to draw what comfort he could from him, but let him go instead.

"I must get my sword." He took a deliberate breath, steeling himself for the coming challenge. Under ordinary circumstances, Flavius stood no chance, but it was impossible to predict all of the variables, and every fight had to be taken as seriously as if it could be the last, as there was always the chance that it might be.

Daronwy let Methos step away, taking a deep breath of his own. He recognized the kind of focus that Methos was drawing about him, and was if anything pleased to see it: the centered and still place from which anything could be met and matched. “And I shall hold your cloak.” _/And may my love and presence be a warmth to you however chill the wind or desperate the fight./_ Daronwy followed Methos out of the room, fitting himself into the stillness of the air around them both.

* * *


	13. Gemini

* * *

The hotel was only a few minutes' walk away, but to Methos, it seemed much longer. He couldn't take his eyes off of Adam, watching as he waved with genuine goodwill to every fan who recognized him, and stopped as they crossed the hotel lobby to sign an autograph with a gracious charm that left the girl who''d asked for it blushing and smiling. He was a delight to watch -- but Methos was still grateful when the door to the suite closed behind them, and they were alone.

The food and beer were already there, so Methos snagged a bottle of the latter and a plate of the former -- Lane had come through with the requested cheeseburger and french fries, making Methos moderately regretful that he hadn't asked for steak and shrimp instead. He settled onto one end of the large and extremely comfortable couch, balancing his plate on the arm of it and curling his legs up beneath him. Adam settled into the chair next to him, and Methos found himself caught up in staring at him all over again. Then Adam looked at him and smiled, and he smiled back, colouring faintly.

"I still can't quite believe it," Methos said quietly. "You really remember." It wasn't quite a question, but there was a query in it, a request for reassurance.

Adam looked up from his salad, studying Methos’ face. Seeing him half-reclining on the couch gave him another flash-fragment of sense-memory — in a garden somewhere, bees humming in warm and scented air, bodies languorous, relaxed, in thoroughly-fucked satiation, Methos lying back on one elbow, gloriously naked in the sunlight, laughing, and he himself was … not young, but the love in Methos’ eyes was ageless. A lifetime of love, an intertwining of music and magic and whole-hearted connection, spirits as much as bodies.

“Yes,” Adam said simply. “Not many details, but some. Just now I saw … there was a garden, with bees, and a grassy hollow that was warm. We … made love there. I was … old, and you were … just as you are.” It wasn’t embarrassment that made him hesitate, choose his words, but the sense that also came with that memory of something special, sacred, not just sex, though the sex was part of the sacrament. “I have fragments of things that hold more than I have words for. I know … deep things about you, about us, when I hold myself in the place the music lives, but I don’t know all kinds of ordinary things.”

Methos closed his eyes, overwhelmed, beyond speech for a moment. He took a deep breath, and opened his eyes again. "It was midsummer. You'd decided that it was my nameday, birthday, since I couldn't, don’t, remember when mine was." He looks down at his plate. "It's still the date — plus or minus a few calendars — on my driver's license." No one else had ever given him a birthday — and Adam had asked him his sign.

"I don't remember you as being old, though. You never seemed that way to me." Daronwy had lived well into his eighties, a long time for that day and age, and he'd never seemed old to Methos. If anything, there was a kind of delight in watching his lovers grow and change. It never mattered how long he had with the people he loved: losing them to death was the agony, young or old —- Alexa after mere months, Daronwy after three score years. He smiled. "Of course, I was already what even the most polite individual would have had to call ancient, even then."

Adam was looking at him, a focused, unreserved attention, eyes wide and serious. Even his hands were still. “How old?” He asked quietly. “How old is ancient?”

Methos shrugged. "I honestly don't know. For one thing, the calendars have changed more times than I can count; for another, I don't remember anything about my early life. I could be missing thirty years, or I could be missing a couple of centuries -- I have no way of knowing. I remember when writing was invented, because I made the first person I met who knew how teach me." Methos laughed. "You know, I haven't actually thought about it in a long time. After a while, it really stops having any meaning. My best guess, though, is that I'm somewhere in the neighborhood of seven thousand -- actually, it's probably closer to eight, give or take a century or three."

It was a number that effectively made no sense. Older than writing, but not older than song. Not so much without meaning as outside it. Outside anything remotely ordinary, and yet, what was ordinary? Because Adam had no doubt at all that what Methos said was true, though he could not have said how he knew that. It was part of the same conviction that upheld his belief in being who he was as completely and honestly as he could, and encouraging others to be themselves. “Adahm for real,” he said, wonderingly, letting the idea just exist in his mind, fantastic and true and out of all reason. Then with a tiny shake of his head Adam decided that Methos’ own attitude — that it had stopped meaning anything — was the right way to deal with it. After all, now and going forward were what they had for working with, whatever the past had taught. Adam smiled and with a breath of a laugh said “Well, if your birthday is midsummer, and things haven’t shifted too much, then you are a Gemini, on the cusp with Cancer.”

"I'll have to remember that." Methos took a bite of his cheeseburger, and washed it down with a swallow of beer. It was just as good as Lane had promised it would be, and he's impressed all over again with her efficiency. Which reminded him -- "I had to tell Lane part of --" He waved a hand between the two of them. "Of this. She's really very protective of you."

Adam nodded, not surprised. “I’m lucky to have her; she’s so good at what she does. I’m glad you told her. What did you tell her? So we’re all on the same page.” He ate another forkful of salad, enjoying all the different textures in it.

"That I knew you from a past life. That you remembered me." He laughed quietly. "I haven't been that embarrassed in forty years." Since the last time he'd associated himself with the music industry, actually. Byron and Mick between them had been able to talk him into all kinds of ridiculous things.

“Don’t be — embarrassed, that is. It’s true, after all, even if it isn’t the whole thing.” Adam’s eyes grew a little more serious. “And we’ll probably want to tell her all of it, pretty soon anyway. Because she is perceptive and protective and really good at her job, which I hope will include making sure there is some space in my schedule for you.” Now the grin was wry, though not unhappy. “This really is a job, as well as fun you know.” Adam took a swallow of his own beer, and put the bottle and plate down on the coffee-table before looking back up at Methos with a deep curiosity and asking seriously, “What is the whole thing? How does it even work that you’re thousands of years old, like … “ Adam’s hands made shapes in the air, “an elf, or something out of a story?”

Methos let himself laugh at that, simply because the comparison was so unlikely. "I'm not an elf, or anything like that. Elves are perfect, unchanging, and I'm -- not. I'm just a guy, Adam, despite my age."

Adam laughed in return, “Oh, I know that, but what else is there to compare it to? And some of those elves were pretty ‘guy-like,’ in the movies anyway.”

Methos sighed, putting down his beer, his expression serious again. "It's -- complicated is an understatement. And it's not exactly safe. I'm afraid I've actually put you in danger just by being here, to a certain extent."

“Danger? What kind of danger?” Adam wasn’t worried about himself, but for Methos, Even as he spoke another flicker-flash image came to him: Methos kneeling battered and exhausted in trampled snow, starkly lit by moonlight and the lightning striking at him. The air burned in Daronwy-Adam’s lungs, ice and ozone, and a metallic taste of blood, the sting of a cut lip and a terrified sense of fear-hope-relief. His mind leapt sideways. “You … aren’t the only one. Who can keep on living. But why on earth would you be dangerous to each other? That doesn’t make sense.”

"Sense has nothing to do with it." Methos sighed. "It's the downside of being Immortal. Some of us believe that we exist only to destroy each other, and that the last one standing will win -- something. No one knows what, but it's a myth that's older than I am. When one of us kills another, permanently, they receive the loser's power, the force that keeps us alive and young and whole. That much is no myth. And the older you are, the more power you have." He was watching Adam as he spoke, trying to judge the effect his words were having.

Adam was listening closely, all of his attention on what Methos was saying, not processing it yet, wanting to hear and understand as much as possible first. There were some pretty frightening/horrifying implications ghosting about underneath, and like other things this evening, it felt more like being reminded of things Adam had once known than being given brand new information. And part of that was his continuing conviction that Methos was not just being straightforward, but cared how Adam took all this.

"I'm the oldest," he continued. "And that makes my head particularly valuable. Most of us think I'm a myth, which is a protection in its own right -- but that won't stop random hunters from coming after me, or someone from figuring out that I do exist after all. And the kinds of people who are likely to come after me are more dangerous than you can possibly imagine." He was more dangerous than Adam could imagine, though he didn't want to emphasize that.

 _Immortal._ That was an appropriate word all right. Even though they apparently could be killed (and the way Methos said ‘permanently’ implied there was dying that wasn’t permanent, and wasn’t that an odd idea; Adam put that thought away for later.) He nodded slowly. “So, there are some other people who know about you being really old, not just me” (that was kind of a relief, strangely enough) “and there are others of you who go around hunting and … preying … on each other. How do you tell? Never mind, presumably you can, or you’d just stay under the radar.” Adam stopped at that. Just about the last thing he was was low-key and invisible, especially now. He frowned, and looked at Methos with worried eyes, the still-sharp memories of being cornered in the stairwell by that pack of relentless paparazzi, feeling like they were going to eat him alive giving an edge to his concern. “I think I’m probably more of a danger to you than you are to me, though. What with the paparazzi and fans and media and all that.” And if the other immortals are so dangerous, how dangerous are you, to have survived so long? Be happy and grateful that he’s dangerous enough _to_ survive, and don’t think too hard about that just yet either. “So what do we do about it?”

"I don't want to give this up." Methos had rarely meant anything more. "Not unless you tell me to. I've lost so many people in my lifetime -- more than I can even count -- and you're the only one who's ever come back to me." He couldn't take his eyes off of Adam. "I can avoid the paparazzi, and handle any Immortals who decide they want my head. My concern is that they might try to come at me through you."

Adam moved his shoulders; not a dismissal of the problem, but a thinking kind of movement. “I don’t want to give it up either, not before I even know what it might be able to be.” He wanted very much to not be three feet away, but touching. It was too much, close but not in contact. (It was like so much of the Idol tour had been, having to be so aware of what it _looked like_ between him and Kris. _They_ knew what was, and wasn’t, going on between them, but it was the appearance that mattered, not the substance. And here there was no need at all to deal with anything but substance.)

It seemed they were on the same wavelength, because as Adam drew breath to reach out, to ask, Methos got up and crossed the two steps that seperated them, sinking to the floor in front of Adam's chair and resting his head in Adam's lap, closing his eyes."It's so very good to have you back," he murmured.

Reflexively, Adam put his hand on Methos’ head, stroking through the thick softness of his hair, feeling the curve of his skull under his fingers, fragile, enduring, familiar. “We’ll make it work. Somehow. All of us together.”

Adam's hand was stroking his hair, and he was warm and alive under Methos' cheek, under his hand. It was like coming home.

* * *


	14. Lightning and Moonlight

* * *

Despite the bitter cold and the fast-approaching night, both were stripped down for the fight. They were in dark wool tunicas with short sleeves, Methos still in the leggings and boots he had worn riding, Flavius taking the time to change out of his house-shoes into his own boots. Daronwy could feel the cold of the ground strike up through his light shoes, a sharper bite than the courtyard had held that morning, and the wind-scoured earth felt harder than the stone flags. An unforgiving killing ground, this field, that in summer would see games and all manner of lively use. The low rays of the pale sun glinted on the gold at Methos’ throat, the seal-ring on Flavius’ finger, the bright, deadly edges of the blades in their hands.

Daronwy saw no one other than the three of them, but what Methos had said earlier about immortal-watchers remained with him, and he could almost feel eyes pressing between his shoulder-blades. He wondered, briefly, who the (or those) observers might be, and then pushed the thought resolutely from his mind. It truly did not matter, especially as Methos had also said they would not interfere.

Methos and Flavius met each other in a space that seemed to close around them, with Daronwy the one fixed point in the delineation of that place apart, ground separate from any other concern. Methos gave Daronwy a look, an acknowledgement that Daronwy could feel in his breast, tingling in his hands, a warmth where Methos’ cloak rested on Daronwy’s shoulders. Flavius looked at and acknowledged him too: grim and proud with a glint that promised retribution should he have the victory, unlikely as that might be, and a determined focus that appeared to be the equal of Methos’ own. Then their attention was only on each other.

For a long moment, Methos and Flavius faced each other balanced on the balls of their feet, swords easy in their hands, hardly moving. It looked like nothing was happening at all, but Daronwy knew, could See, that indeed the fight had been joined. This was more than a physical contest — spirit, mind, heart were all engaged as much or more than the body. Flavius was looking for an opening, a chink, a hint in Methos’ demeanor that might signal a flaw in his energy/focus that would let him in, let Flavius make an effective strike. Daronwy wondered if perhaps Flavius was still seeing Methos as Anluan, but then dismissed the idea. Methos had already marked several approaches, but was waiting for Flavius to move first, take the fight to blows.

Finally, Flavius did strike, a quick and powerful movement that Methos flicked away with hardly a twitch, and then they were going at it furiously. Methos fought as Daronwy imagined Arawen would fight: swift and supple, illusive and overwhelmingly Present. The sound of the blades rang in the still air, counterpoint to the scuff of their feet and the distant caw of a raven. Flavius was good, but not good enough, and Methos was not about to lose. Flavius’ sword was suddenly not in the right place at all to meet Methos’ deadly, inescapable back-hand swing, and then Flavius’ head was on the ground, black and red on the white snow, winter twilight falling fast.

Daronwy knew it had been a very fast fight, for all that it felt long, and that it could have been much more brutal than it had been. Daronwy was warrior enough to perceive that Methos had been restrained, even merciful, working toward the one clean blow. The lightning-storm that followed was like nothing he had ever before seen or imagined.

When Flavius fell, Methos met Daronwy’s eyes again, briefly, with an almost agonized expression. The hush was extraordinary. Mist gathered from nowhere, out of the air, the ground, like snow-wraiths converging on the still, tense figure still gripping the hilt of the sword, the point now at the ground.

The first bolt of lightning struck up, with a crackle and crack nothing like thunder, like nothing Daronwy had ever seen or heard before. It leapt from Flavius’ still form, flailing at the sky, at the too-distant trees. Then it twisted, arched, lanced down to strike at Methos, battering at him. After the first more struck, flaring bolts that seemed to rip the air with screams that Daronwy heard not so much with his ears as some other, subtler sense. Methos shuddered under the onslaught, face twisting with more than pain as the ferocity of the strikes drove him to his knees. This was what Methos had meant when he talked about the victor taking the essence, the power of the slain. Gods above and below, who could want to experience that except by dire necessity?

A final explosion of light and fire filled the air, burning a sigil-shape in the snow, hard lines that held a meaning Daronwy did not know and could not guess. They glowed brightly for a moment, then vanished, leaving only trickles of snow-melt. The ephemeral fire had not even burned the sere winter grass beneath the snow.

In the sudden, ringing silence, Methos collapsed, sinking into a little heap, head hanging. His back shook with his sawing breath, and the exposed nape of his neck was shockingly, appallingly vulnerable. One more moment of frozen stillness, and Daronwy could bear it no longer. He strode out across the field, noting Flavius’ still form as little as his own chilled feet. Something would need to be done about, for, with, the body, but the living came first. Belatedly, it occurred to Daronwy to wonder if the invisible fight had been — would be — as simply won and the physical. As quickly as the thought appeared he banished it. That fight had surely been over before Flavius assayed his first stroke, the fury of the lightning notwithstanding.

Daronwy took the cloak from his shoulders and knelt down beside Methos, covering him in the warm folds. Methos was shivering with exhaustion more than cold. It was almost dark, though the nearly full moon cast a white glimmer on the snow, the single arc of blood black as shadow. A seer would have found an augury in that contrast, drawn a connection with the lightning-shape that glittered where the melted snow had refrozen hard. Daronwy saw only that Flavius was dead, Methos alive, and as with every life, with every death, the world was a little different now. But he would not look to find more meaning than there was in such fleeting signs. In the grey light, Methos looked ageless, ancient and young both. The meaning that mattered would be found in Methos’ face, the look in his eyes. “I am here, my love. Are you well?”

Methos nodded automatically, forcing himself to straighten up and to lock away -- at least temporarily -- the rush of adrenaline and desire and **need** that had been part of the aftereffect of taking a Quickening for as long as he could remember. The last time he'd taken one, he'd had Kronos and Caspian and even Silas to help take the worst of the edge off. Expecting the same from a mortal -- even a mortal whom, like Daronwy, knew at least a little of what the Quickening could do the the victor, having listened, _heard_ when Methos had spoken of it -- was something else entirely. The centuries between the last challenge he'd taken and the feeling of Flavius' furious refusal to settle -- and the **need** that taking that Quickening was forcing through every vein -- were making his hands tremble, but he managed to keep his expression neutral, even pleasant.

"I'll be fine," he said, ignoring the roughness in his own voice. "Are you all right, love?"

“I was not the one fighting.” Daronwy’s wrist ached sharply as if to remind him that was not strictly true. He had forgotten it was even injured. “Nor the center of a lightning-storm.” He could see the strain under the carefully calm look on Methos’ face, feel the faint tremble growing in the long muscles of his back, under Daronwy’s cold fingers. Neither of their breathing was quite steady, though Methos’ had slowed from the sobbing desperation of a few moments ago. The hunger in his voice told its own tale.

"That's the Quickening," Methos said, rather inanely in his opinion, as Daronwy was sure to have realized by now. "And not much of one, at that -- Flavius was a child." Child or no, he was still raging along Methos' nerves, stirring up old ghosts long since assimilated into Methos' own Quickening. The last time he'd taken a head, he'd had Kronos beside him, to hold him down and take him in turn, agony and ecstasy twin anchors holding Methos into himself, forcing the ragged ghosts in his soul to flee gratefully into the silence.

He couldn't ask that of Daronwy, though -- couldn't even hint at it. The Horseman who could relish blood and pain as easily as tenderness was centuries in his past, no matter if today's fury and Flavius' Quickening were pulling those instincts back to the surface. "Come on," he said, striving for gentleness. "I suggest a fire, and perhaps some mead."

Daronwy’s brows drew together. What he was feeling from Methos and what he was hearing were hardly connected, nearly at odds. The brittle, bitter energy that still seemed to spark on Methos’ skin did not fit with the idea of civilized cups and fireside stillness. Though warmth was certainly in order, and quite possibly strong drink. And an irritatingly practical corner of his mind insisted on pointing out that there was a dead body to do something about, a Roman noble, for whom the proper rites should be done, for his household if not for his own sake.

“If that was the life-force of a child of the Undying, I would not want to see a greater,” Daronwy said, the evenness of his voice an effort. “Or have it chasing about under my skin.” He got a hand under Methos’ elbow, and bit his lip against the sudden flare of pain. The cut there added its own sting, and Daronwy felt a kernel of anger in his own breast; not at his injuries so much as that Flavius had caused Methos to have to do what he had not wanted, and was now struggling with the results. But anger would not help at the moment, would not get them inside faster, or deal reasonably with the servants. Daronwy pushed the feeling back and away, set his teeth and ignored the heat of it as he did the other discomforts. “Yes, let us get inside, and warm. What is to do with —” In the moonlight, Flavius’ body was an indistinct shadow, but there were scavengers and other hungry creatures about, “— him?”

"He'll be taken care of," Methos assured Daronwy, trying to keep from shuddering at the simple touch. His entire body felt as if every nerve were right at the surface of his skin. Even the brush of his clothing was an intensity that required an effort of will to ignore, and the warm pressure of Daronwy's hand under his elbow sent desire and need tracing over his skin in waves of goosebumps. A quick glance around confirmed that there was no one else in earshot, though Methos would be willing to wager on the presence of at least one hidden Watcher. "In addition to keeping track of Immortal doings, the mortals I mentioned earlier also do a fair job of disposing of any embarassing evidence."

“Good,” Daronwy nodded, all thought of Flavius vanishing between Methos’ words and the skittering flinch of his muscles as Daronwy helped him stand. The sense of frenzied energy was increasing, not lessening. Daronwy closed his fingers more firmly on Methos’ arm, thought of the earth under his feet, the wide sky, in an effort to encourage the sense of overload. of too-muchness, to bleed off, settle or spin away. He wasn’t at all sure it would be enough to merely think it smooth and grounded, but it was what he had available to him in the moment. Let Daronwy get them both inside, away from any eyes, useful or not, and then see what could be done to ease this palpable distress. Distress that Methos was refusing to even acknowledge.

The daylight was entirely gone now, only a purple-red seam left on the tops of the hills beyond the trees, but the moonlight was bright enough to see the way back to the house. Methos was uncharacteristically unsteady on his feet, though no one not as close or attuned to him as Daronwy would notice. Daronwy was glad to see the flare of the lamp by the narrow door in the wall at the rear of the villa. Then Rhian and Niall were bowing them into the passage that served the storerooms and the cisterns, and the gold light showed Anluan’s face drawn and white with more than cold. Daronwy did not want to think what his own face might be showing.

Methos had never entirely let go of his sword. Daronwy finally coaxed it from him and handed it off to Niall. The boy looked at it a little like it might bite him, but assured Anluan that the armorer would care for it instantly, and was off down the corridor with it. Rhian was much happier to take Daronwy’s cloak, and then wait unobtrusively by the now-barred door in case either the lord or the bard should have further need of him. Once again, Daronwy was grateful for the smooth and intelligent way Anluan’s house was run. It was a much more pleasant place all around than Flavius' villa had ever been. Something would have to be done about Flavius’ property, but that too was a matter for the morning, not now.

Methos pulled away from Daronwy's touch before dipping a bowl into the cistern and dumping it unceremoniously over his head, desperately hoping that the cold water would help to at least take the edge off of the fight Flavius' ghost was still putting up. It didn't help, and Methos leaned against the wall, using it to sink down almost to his heels, head bent forward so that he could cover his face with his hands while he struggled for control.

Daronwy shivered as stray water drops went flying, both because he was thoroughly chilled and more for what the need might be that would want such a jolt after so many already given. Seeing Methos — Anluan — (it was very hard to keep that name in mind, since it was so obvious to Daronwy that it was Methos suffering, but especially needful, since there was no knowing who might be one of those that watched, and Daronwy was already jealous of Methos’ privacy even moreso than his own) slide helplessly down the wall, long fingers attempting to hide his distress, made Daronwy’s heart hurt.

Rhian took a quick step forward, but Daronwy stopped him with a sharp look. “I’ll take care of him, lad.” Anluan would want no one to see him like this, not even a boy. Daronwy eased the now-sodden cloak from where it hung askew from one shoulder and handed it to him. Freed of the weight of it, Methos only bent his head further into his hands. “Attend to the lord’s cloak, please, Rhian. Make sure there the fires and lamps are lit in our rooms. We’ll not be at dinner, most like.” The boy’s eyes were wide. Daronwy found a note of command threading his voice. “And see we are not disturbed.”

“Yessir!” Rhian took the cloak and disappeared smartly down the hall. Daronwy did not watch him go, turning to crouch beside Methos where he huddled against the wall. Gently, but with the echo of command still in his tone, Daronwy reached out to grasp Methos’ upper arms in careful fingers and said, soft but insistent, “Methos. Beloved, Let me help.”

Methos closed his eyes tightly, trying and failing to keep from tensing beneath the touch of Daronwy's hands. He could not, would not ask of Daronwy what Kronos had given as a matter of course in the last few centuries of the Horsemen's rule, as Quickenings had begun to cross the line from pain-laced ecstasy to pleasure-touched agony, and only the total surrender of his body had allowed him to regain control and equilibrium in his mind.

"It will pass," he muttered, though the words were more a hope than a certainty. It had been well over a thousand years since he'd had to ride out the aftermath of a Quickening on his own, and in that thousand years he'd taken the Quickenings of every older Immortal whose paths he'd crossed. "It will pass," he said again, and forced himself to stand despite the almost painful ache of the arousal left behind in the Quickening's wake.

“At least let me get you out of the hallway.” Daronwy stood with him, not missing the tightness under his hands, or the obvious jut of arousal under his tunic. Nor did he miss the strain in Methos’ voice, the note (he realized unhappily) of hopelessness and fear. What was Methos afraid of? Afraid of such that he would flinch from a lover’s hand? A _husband’s_ hand. When it would seem a husband-and-lover’s touch was urgently desired?

“If it will pass, it does not seem to be going quickly,” Daronwy said with a lightness he was far from feeling. He used his greater height to get Methos moving again down the hall toward his rooms, and was unsurprised (if dismayed) to note how Methos’ body obeyed even as he tensed further, like an over-wound harp-string. There was a message there, could he but read it. Methos’ face flickered between closed and need-despair, and his breath was short and unsteady. Daronwy took an unsteady breath of his own. “I’m not leaving you. Bath or bedchamber?”

"Gods." Methos closed his eyes against the wave of **need** that rushed through him at the thought, his hands locking into fists that made his forearms ache. "Daronwy -- beloved -- I **can not** ask this of you." Even admitting that much made his stomach twist in fear -- of driving Daronwy away, or of using his love to turn him to something he should never be forced even to consider.

If Methos were a harp-string he would snap with the least more tension. Daronwy could practically hear the cry of breaking bronze, the lethal shriek of whipping wire, the crack and jangle of wounded harp all untuned. The room they shared was but a step away. Daronwy steered Methos through the door and into the space their love had made sacred. He knew his fingers were clamped hard on Methos’ arms, but he was himself terrified of what might happen did he let go. Then the door was shut with a thud, and Methos’ shoulders were pressed against the wood as Daronwy felt himself both immense and perfectly, precisely focused. “There is _nothing_ you cannot ask me, ask of me. I am your _husband_ , Methos-beloved, by will and word and witness of the gods!” He was shouting. Daronwy made himself stop, breathe, loosen his hands, step back just enough, though he did not let go entirely. “What. Do. You. Need. Tell me, please.” The last words were very nearly a whisper, spoken with everything he had in him.

The words wouldn't come, _couldn't_ , though they hovered in his throat and hung on the tip of his tongue. Instead, Methos found himself sliding down, first to his knees and then further still, until his forehead rested against the floor. It came from a place beyond thought, deeper than memory or even instinct, and was nothing he'd ever let Kronos see, or even suspect the existence of. Here, now, it was the only thing he could think to do: the only way he knew how to ask for something he had no right even to dream of asking.

Speech did not require to be words; Daronwy knew that very well. This was an abject plea, a need made mute by the depth and force and terror of it. But the brittle, shattering tension had receded to a bearable level, and the terror was all Methos’ not Daronwy’s. Supplication, said the curve of Methos’ back. Submission, the exposed, vulnerable nape of his neck. Utter submission, all wards and walls flattened. Daronwy knelt down carefully, still feeling paradoxically like both a point and a cloud, but also a kind of fearful honor and relief, a sense of vast and fiercely tender responsibility. Take me, said the tremble of Methos’ breath. Make me know, beyond any doubt or question, that I am yours. That I _am_.

Daronwy’s heart, groin, the point on his forehead under the spiraling ink, and both palms were hot, burning with presence, with the force of his own need, his own love. He put one hand firmly and gently flat between Methos’ shoulder blades, the other cupping the top of his head, and leaned down to kiss the fragile place where skull met spine. “Yes, my love, my beloved. Yes. I will. We will. Yes.”

The tenderness in that touch, in those words, should have been expected but wasn't, and Methos shuddered, stricken. He couldn't move, could barely breathe. Flavius' energy was still coiling furious beneath his skin, demanding something, anything, battering at him from within. The touch of Daronwy's lips to the base of his skull drew a gasp from him that was almost a sob, and he lifted his head, eyes open but unseeing, almost blind with need and fear and a sudden, dreadful hope that was worse than fear and need combined.

What Daronwy saw in Methos’ face could no more be framed in words than the desperate plea of his body, but the force, the need, the blind and blazing hope were palpable. Daronwy slid his hand down through the wet spikes of Methos hair to cradle the side of his face, moving on instinct, inspiration. There were no guidelines for this, none at all, beyond what he knew of himself and that he loved this man past all ordinary bound or rule. He bent his own forehead to Methos’, the place between his brows still burning, and for a moment they breathed the same air.

Daronwy could feel the thrum of connection like a cord between them, the offer accepted, the need-that-would-be-met. Heat stung his eyes, the coal of warmth that had kindled in his heart and groin began to spread. Yes. This _was_ about intimacy, and the deepest places of self. About the body speaking for the anguished spirit. How else but with his own body, his own incandescent spirit, could such a need be met? _”Oh my love, I shall wrap and fold and fill you, so very full, whelm and over-whelm, until you are overflowing with my love, every part and particle of you.”_ It wasn’t until he heard the murmur of his own voice that Daronwy realized he had spoken that aloud.

"Please," Methos gasped. His body was aching with need, almost as badly as his soul ached with the ghost of Flavius' rage and disgust. He wanted the man settled, absorbed and gone, and he couldn't remember needing anyone as much as he needed Daronwy. There was no offer of pain in Daronwy's words, nothing that suggested the breaking and remolding that Kronos had given as a matter of course, but that wasn’t something he could ask for, not here, not now. "Please," he whispered again, closing his eyes and leaning into Daronwy's touch. "Take me, fill me, break me -- I'm **yours.** "

“Oh, indeed I shall, as I am yours as well.” The _want_ in Methos’ voice went straight to Daronwy’s cock, fizzed on his skin, and he relished the fire of it, but did not allow it to rule him. Daronwy understood that what Methos had given over to him, was trusting him with, was control, unreserved. It would be terribly easy to hurt, to take, to break, and perhaps that was what Methos was expecting, begging to be broken. But there was more than one kind of breaking, and Daronwy vowed with all his heart that did it lie in his power, he would see Methos break only bonds on his spirit, not bones.

(Daronwy had a momentary, horrifying image: Methos was immortal, the most appalling damage would heal. In that nightmare past he did not speak of, was that what had happened? Someone _literally_ broke him in the quickening aftermath? No and no and no again. Did Methos think that was what he needed, no wonder he could not ask. Gods below and above. **No.** But Methos had given him absolute leave, even for that. All the more need for Daronwy to be mindful, aware, careful of this spiked and difficult gift, present and in control.)

Daronwy found he had gone completely to his knees and pulled Methos (pliant, unresisting, eager for his touch) half into his lap, arms wrapped wholly around him. “You shall have everything you need my love, oh yes,” he breathed into the still-damp hair under his cheek. Then Daronwy drew a deep and centering breath, as if preparing to sing a great note, a song of power, finding the place in himself from whence that power welled up, and _took_ control.The very air in the room, the fire in the hearth, his to command. He took Methos by the arms and moved him away far enough to look him in the face, and said, gently and with irresistible command, “Up, my love. Undress.” Methos’ eyes met his, fathomless and firelit, grateful and completely _present_. “Then undress me.”

The tenderness, the _love_ , in Daronwy's voice was nothing familiar, and Methos couldn't bear to look him in the eyes beyond that single moment, couldn't bear to see either expression in his face. His hands shook as he undressed, removing first his clothing and then his jewelry, stripping himself so that he stood in front of Daronwy in nothing at all, with nothing at all, save for his own unchanging, unalterable self.

His hands were still shaking as he started on Daronwy's clothing, and he kept his eyes focused on his own fingers. He couldn't meet Daronwy's eyes, couldn't look at the beloved, desired body he was uncovering, not with Flavius still hovering like a viper beneath his skin. He went to his knees again when he'd finished, keeping his head down and his eyes fixed on the floor before Daronwy's feet. He'd learned this sort of behaviour, this sort of utter submission, long before he'd ever met Kronos, and retreating to it in the face of the emotion he could neither put aside nor lock away was all he could manage. He was afraid that if he opened his mouth, he would beg for the sort of pain he was only too familiar with, would ask for something that Daronwy could not give.

Daronwy watched Methos with his full attention, seeing the way his skin flinched and hands trembled, how he would not — could not — hold Daronwy’s glance after that first devastating moment. Methos did not cringe, but he moved like the slaves Flavius had abused most capriciously: terribly aware and excruciatingly careful, expecting a blow at any moment. Methos had been that slave, Daronwy realized. On his back were faint scars, thin white lines that crossed and re-crossed, that could only have come from being whipped, badly and more than once, when he was still mortal. Daronwy’s stomach clenched as the thought ran further. Not just beaten. Abused and violated in every way a slave could be; and once he was immortal, Undying, there would have been no end to it. No torment his body would not shake off, leaving spirit to suffer, over and over again. No wonder Methos had seen slicing his arm to bone as simply practical demonstration of how quickly and thoroughly he healed. In retrospect Daronwy was profoundly grateful he had not chosen to prove his point by killing himself. Though Daronwy supposed that at some point it would be better to see that in order to know what happened, how long it would take Methos to revive, but he was not at all eager to have that experience, deliberate or otherwise. He shook the thought away. Deal with the here and now, and the present distress.

There was more to what Daronwy was seeing than the reactions of an abused slave, though. Much more. There was the unthinking skill of the highest order of personal attendant, more so even than Leontes or Erasthenes at the governor’s palace. There was no guilt in him, no ordinary shame. Fear, yes, distress, twitchy, febrile discomfort that looked to verge on pain, and a _need_ that shouted from every point, with every movement. A need that plucked at every nerve, tugged at Daronwy’s heart, hands, cock — _take me, fill me, break me, own me_ — his beloved had begged, in a voice Daronwy had never thought to hear. And now Methos was prostrate at his feet again, his order executed flawlessly.

Daronwy really did not like seeing Methos abject, especially since it was not at all an act. “My love —” He started to tell Methos to get up, to stand, and stopped with the rest of the words unspoken. Instead he bent and scooped Methos up, taking the three steps to the bed without thought, and laid him, still curled, in the middle of the furs. The sudden sharp ache of his wrist made him wince, but he refused to be distracted. “My love,” he said, tracing one of the faint lines on Methos’ shoulder, “can you tell me more of what it is you need?”

Daronwy's hands were appallingly, terrifyingly gentle, his fingers a caress over first one, then another, then another, of the scars Methos usually forgot he even wore. The reason for their existence was as forgotten as the rest of his mortal life, the faint white lines themselves the only proof he had that he was ever mortal at all. Kronos had opened them up for him once, turned each one red and white with blood and bone in what Methos had assumed was an effort to excise the mortal touch from his skin. The first had become a white scar again even before Kronos had gotten half-way through, but for a little while, at least, he'd belonged only to the present.

Now, Methos focused on Daronwy's terrible, gentle hands: on a touch that was as far from pain as Daronwy was from the Horsemen, but that was an agony all of its own, and almost unbearable.

"Kronos opened those up for me once," Methos offered, so quietly that he didn't know whether Daronwy could hear him or not. He was not sure whether he wanted to be heard. "I begged him for it, from my knees, and when he'd finished, I begged him for more." Towards the end, even Kronos hadn't been able to quiet him, not completely.

Daronwy did not allow his hands to stiffen at Methos’ words, low and clear and matter of fact, so stripped of feeling that it took a moment for Daronwy to realize even the first of their implications. He hadn’t wanted to be right, not in that. His immediate response was to lean down and kiss the mark under his finger, as if somehow the touch of his lips could seal the wound from so long ago, draw the riven edges of spirit back together, cleansed of anguish.

“Why?” Daronwy said, keeping his voice soft, even, and nevertheless requiring response. “Why beg for that? Ask to be hurt?” He kissed another scar, beginning to end, and another. There were tears gathering in his eyes: he could not allow them to tighten his voice. “What was — is — the need that such would be thought an answer?” When Daronwy looked for the next thin line to kiss, there was a faint smear of red marking the white, blood from his lip, and the threatening tears spilled.

“What else could I possibly ask for?” There was a broken, hopeless note in Methos’ nearly inaudible voice, the words brought up from some deep place, unsealed by the touch of Daronwy’s tears on those scars. “I needed …” _/need/_ “the pain.” He could not hope for Daronwy to understand; he could only hope that somehow, the admission would not injure what they had between them, that his darkness would not reach out to ensnare and dim the brightest thing he could remember in his life. He was so afraid that Daronwy would try to give him what he asked for, and be irretrievably damaged in the process.

“ _Why?_ ” Daronwy cried out, struggling to keep the distress out of his voice. Methos was stiff, tension radiating from curled spine and bent neck and clenched hands. Daronwy moved to arrange him more comfortably, and Methos let him, still with that disconcerting acquiescence — more than that: relieved, even eager acceptance — of Daronwy’s command of his person. When Daronwy could look him more easily in the face he asked again, more evenly, but no less insistently, “Why such _pain?_ ”

How could he answer that? But the chasm that had been sealed with blood and broken flesh, unspeakable, unbearable pain had already been cracked open by Daronwy’s clear and un-judging gaze. Horrified, Methos felt the words well up in his throat, emerging simple and appalling. “To defeat the invader. Make the taken soul submit.” Those perceptive eyes were Seeing all too much. Methos closed his own, and rather than shutting out that warmth and connection, felt it all the more in the touch of Daronwy’s hands, the heat of his body where it lay close to him. Methos’ cock ached, his arse pulsed, his skin yearned for violence, for agony to destroy the unbearable pressure of the alien, hated, hateful presence of Flavius in his mind, pricking hot in every nerve. Daronwy’s presence was the opposite of what he was terribly afraid was his only solution. How could mortal love and concern, however great or true not be tainted by contact with, acceptance of, such vile need?

 _Make the taken soul submit._ Flavius was a taken soul, and Flavius had never submitted in his life. Oh gods. That _was_ what this was about. The fight was not yet finished, only the physical one definitively won, not the non-physical. Daronwy pressed a kiss to the hollow of Methos’ throat, cupped one hand and then the other to either side of his face with exquisite gentleness, as if the skin would break and bleed under the caress. “It _is_ Flavius, isn’t it? Fighting back against assimilation, subsumption, against being finally, completely defeated and swallowed up.”

Methos could not but open his eyes. “Yes,” he whispered, as thin and ragged as though strained through crystal shards. Daronwy’s so-gentle hands held his face, would not let him look away, and the sheer acceptance in Daronwy’s eyes drew out more words, things he had never before said to anyone at all. “It will heal. Anything less than decapitation, without a mark. They don’t know how to break. Princes of the universe: won’t, can’t, submit. I can take it. Endure it. Take them down. I’ll come back. Recover, revive. They won’t.”

Daronwy swallowed back the cry of objection, of rejection of such a dire solution. This wasn’t about him. It was about Methos, but there was a note of hopelessness, of despair in Methos’ words that Daronwy did not like at all. Methos had defeated all those other Undying personalities, Quickenings, by forcing them to break by breaking himself, and them with him. Forcing them to submit and be absorbed in the agony of his own immolation and extravagance of torment. Shattering them by shattering himself. Oh, there had to be another way. There _had_ to be. For Daronwy _would not_ hurt Methos further.

Feeling his way, Daronwy pressed kisses to Methos’ forehead, to his eyes and tense, unhappy mouth. Then he drew Methos into an embrace, wrapping him in his arms with Methos’ head tucked close against the hollow of Daronwy’s shoulder. “We will _find another way_ to meet your need, my love. We will free you of him, but I _will not_ hurt you.”

The only thing that Daronwy could think of to counter the destructive violence and agony that Methos knew, expected, had asked for was comprehensive, devastating tenderness, unyielding, unrelenting, inexorable _care_. To bring him to ecstasy, not agony. The antithesis of pain, the very soul of love. He breathed a prayer to the powers he honored, to Brid of the healing, forging, inspiring fire, to Arawen of aweful mercy that he might have everything it would take to follow through with that promise.

“Do you trust me? _Will_ you trust me? That was the question everything hinged on. Daronwy held Methos like one would a bird, a creature of the wood, with firm gentleness, secure but with no element of confinement; however hard it would be to let go still never shutting off that possibility.

Something in Methos did break then, like glaze over an unslipped crack in shaped clay, skin grown over an unhealed wound, and he gave over resisting. “Yes. Oh, yes.” _Yours, beloved. Yours to do with as you will._ It seemed the very act of putting himself completely in Daronwy’s hands was enough to cause Flavius’ sere and frenetic energy to rage anew, but also somehow made it more distinct, no less burning or acid along his nerves, certainly no less dissonant, but separate. Not-him.

* * *

Relieving Methos’ acute and immediate need was Daronwy’s first object, and he applied himself with watchful enthusiasm. There was always oil in their rooms now, and soon he had Methos snugly spooned against him, rigid, weeping cock in a slick hand, Daronwy’s own half-hard length comfortably nestled between Methos’ thighs. His other hand rubbed just under the edge of one sharply peaked nipple, and Daronwy bent to lavish wet and sucking kisses to Methos’ throat and neck, making him buck into Daronwy’s hand and cry out in short, stuttering breaths.

Very little of that smooth and knowing touch, firm embrace and clever mouth was needed before Methos stiffened and gasped, orgasm taking him by storm, so quickening-hard was he. Climax burned through him, sharp and hot, the swift pleasure of it roughened by the tenacious remnant of Flavius resisting any release, any un-control, the mere idea that he could be made to experience the physical delight caused by submitting to another. And such an other. But Daronwy’s arms were strong; Methos was safe in them.

“Breathe, my love, let go, let it come, yes, like that.” Methos thrashed once again, cock jerking and pulsing in Daronwy’s snug grip, belly muscles fluttering. Daronwy gave a last suckling kiss to the so-sensitive place under the corner of Methos’ jaw, glad to feel the familiar long shudder of pleasure that attention reliably produced. Gladder to note locked muscles easing to merely stiff. Daronwy held him cradled close until the trembles stopped and the quick, uneven breath smoothed and slowed.

While they lay together, Daronwy considered what to do next, casting his eyes idly around the room. The oil was ready to hand, the flask more than half-full after the use they had put it to that morning, the dish to hold it and keep drips from the bedclothes also making it easy to dip ones fingers in for easy application. On the dressing table under the window, next to the expected ewer of water and hand-basin was a short pile of linen towels and a freshly polished strigil. Apparently Niall had been interrupted in his duties this afternoon. The sight gave Daronwy an idea. The more he thought about it the more right it felt.

Methos murmured a faint protest when Daronwy got up to collect the entire small table and bring it over to the bed. “I am right here, my love. I will not leave you,” Daronwy said as he set it close to hand and poured some of the oil in the dish. Then he arranged Methos spread out on the bed, all long, lean bone and defined muscle, his runner’s form usually hidden under his tunics and Anluan’s scholarly and aesthetic demeanor. His beauty struck Daronwy all over again, even as Flavius’s raw energy apparently took the opportunity to make Methos bite his lip and flinch as against invisible nettles. Daronwy decided to take it as a good sign that Methos was letting him see the struggle, but it also only reinforced Daronwy’s resolve to see Methos eased, and Flavius defeated utterly.

The struggle was also obviously galvantic: Methos was already hardening again after not entirely softening earlier. Well, Daronwy would make this one last longer. He warmed a little oil in his hands and touched Methos gently before leaning in to rub in smoothly first on one arm and then the other. “I’m going to clean you, all over, everywhere, and you are going to feel nothing but the oil and the strigil, my hands and the air. I am stripping away the sweat and the fear and the anger of the fight, leaving only the victory of love and life.” Daronwy suited deed to word, and drew the strigil neatly down the curve of Methos’ arm, wiping the oil and whatever it had picked up from the blade after each stroke. This was ritual as much as actual.

As Daronwy proceeded, he used every technique and subtlety that he had learned from Leontes, making love to Methos with the cleaning implements, taking extra care in delicate places to rouse but not to tease, and to soothe as much as arouse. He wanted Methos to enjoy each touch, and judging by the way he was responding, it was working. When he encouraged Methos to turn over so he could attend his back, Methos sighed and moved sensuously under Daronwy’s hands, flushed and hard and apparently enjoying the anticipation, even the uncertainly of what Daronwy was going to do next. Daronwy could see that Flavius’ spirit was fighting against the steady rise of pleasure and losing each time.

Daronwy kept up a soft flow of words, of love, of description, of appreciation as he worked, and when he was finished, having saved the delicate, exquisitely arousing process of oiling and drawing the strigil over and around and so carefully between Methos’ buttocks for last, they were both hard and breathing fast. The next step had come to him as he spent some time on the sensitive triangle of skin at the base of Methos’ spine that led the eye and desire to the cleft between his cheeks. Daronwy remembered Methos bringing him to surprised and shouting climax with lips and tongue on and around and pressing in to Daronwy’s entrance, an act it would never have occurred to him to want, that now made him shiver with delight in mere memory. He had not yet returned the favor. This would seem a perfect opportunity.

When Daronwy set a pillow under Methos’ hips, covered with one of the soft towels, and then spread his cheeks gently apart, Methos felt his heart thud in anticipation — of touch, of penetration, of whatever Daronwy choose to give him, anticipating pleasure now and not pain, astonishing and frightening and building he knew not where. The furious remnant of Flavius still burning and roaring under his skin fought back at the first touch of Daronwy’s fingers, then fled to the far reaches of Methos’ awareness at the astonishment of Daronwy’s kiss, there, sure and sweet and oh so desired. Methos could not remember the last time he had been loved this way, and the sensation sparked and flared delight along every nerve. He was gasping and shivering, achingly hard, lost in the liquid ecstasy of Daronwy’s tongue pressing into him, perfect intrusion, pressure, pleasure. He was whimpering, wanting, wanting more, spiraling upward in inexorable need-desire-delight. How had Daronwy _known?_ This most intimate possible kiss, Daronwy opening and delighting in giving him this. He was shaking, balls tight, climax coiling tighter and tighter around the point of Daronwy’s fiercely loving attention.

Then Daronwy licked and pressed deep, lapping and sucking, and it was too much to hold onto, too much to bear, overwhelming him with sensation. His orgasm crashed over him like a wave, as he thrashed and writhed and cried out for long moments, every muscle pulsing in ecstasy, until at last Daronwy pulled him into his arms and held him until the shuddering sensation stopped and he could breathe again.

What Daronwy felt was an entirely different kind of climax, an internal contraction and expansion as if he had somehow pulsed out song instead of seed from his belly, his heart, his hands, and not his cock. He was still hard, but it was a tempered arousal, a tool to be used in service of Methos’ need, not need of itself, and it only added to Daronwy’s own astonished sense of fierce and tender love-desire and resolve. There was more yet to come. Daronwy set about building up the conflagration once again.

And when the moments came (fewer and farther apart as the night progressed) when Methos stiffened in resistance to the inner conflict being waged by the lightnings in his blood, face twisting in pain, breath coming hard and short, Daronwy continued his careful, inexorable application and invocation of pleasure to and in every part of Methos, murmuring words of love, of encouragement, of command that Methos was oh so grateful to obey. Daronwy would give no mind at all to Flavius: all was Methos. Methos tasked to let Daronwy hear him moan as he was stretched, shamelessly holding his own cheeks apart, Daronwy’s fingers opening him in tiny, easy, exquisite increments, until he was flushed and panting to be filled. Methos writhing boneless and responsive to every faintest touch of tongue or lips or fingers to spine or sternum, wrist or waist, palms or soles or hairline, every tender crease where one part met another - hip and thigh, knee and elbow, collarbone and fragile shell of ear.

When Daronwy finally entered him, sliding home in one inexorable, deliberate stroke, Methos felt as though every part of him had been filled and penetrated by an incalculable immensity, every last part of him laid open, strung out like a net pierced with starlight, and entirely enfolded in Daronwy’s love.

Daronwy was speaking, words like like water, fire, song and steel, sharp and strong enough to cleave the light from dark. “Feel that, my love, feel all of it. Feel me stretching you wide, filling you full and overflowing with my self, my seed, my desire, my flesh and fire, and breath and need, and most of all my love. All for you. All of me in you, all of you in me. Feel yourself, filled and cherished, wholly taken, wholly owned, wholly yourself, with your own fire, your own seed, your own power, willingly submitted, laid open to delight at my hands, my command. Ravished by the love we have and hold. Do you feel it my love, do you feel the seed planted, the tree, the wave, the wind, the flame of my love filling you utterly, until you must come, become, increase, transform, until you are only and absolutely your self. Your self and my beloved.”

Methos was well beyond speech, every particle of him aflame, held taut and stretched and filled with indescribable, overwhelming pleasure. After the second orgasm Daronwy had brought him to, Methos thought he could hold no more desire than that, but this was higher and fuller and deeper. He was held, pierced and piercing and entirely safe in the flesh and spirit, heart and regard of one who loved him without remorse or reservation. Wholly exposed and entirely enfolded by one who loved _him_. Who would see him safe and whole and himself again, remade in the forge-fire of overwhelming glorious sensation.

“Come for me, my love. Methos, come. Let go. Let it all go.” Daronwy’s words were a whisper, a shout, a blade, a bolt of lightning striking, as Daronwy thrust into him once again, filling him forever and always. Methos arched like a bow, a harpstring plucked by Daronwy’s hand, and let his orgasm take him completely apart, every particle of him released in ecstasy. For long, long moments he knew nothing but a white overload of pure, untrammeled pleasure, bounded only by the sense of freeing and encircling arms.

And in that vast space of self, the last spark of Flavius Portius Lucullus fled shrieking and whimpering into nothingness. Entirely overwhelmed, shattered and safe in Daronwy’s arms, Methos wept with unfettered joy, tears scouring the poison of millennia from his veins.

* * *

 

After that, Daronwy had very nearly had to carry Methos to the bath, so thoroughly wrung out was he, but the clean, hot water soon revived him to a state where he could think again, instead of only feel.

Daronwy had been so focused on Methos, on giving him what he needed, and not what he thought he wanted, bringing him to shattering, ecstatic release, overwhelmed with sensation, with love, with care, that while he had climaxed, his living seed planted sure in Methos’ innermost, deepest places, he had not found his own release. Oh he had come, climaxed with a shuddering breath drawn from his own roots, but there was something else he needed, non-physical and inarticulate. Methos had no doubt that Daronwy had found pleasure in what he was doing, as well as in Methos’ pleasure, not to mention the indescribable charge of commanding, conceiving and bringing forth such an experience in another. Now, in the bath, both of them in the comprehensive and warm embrace of the water, Methos was aware of himself again enough to realize that Daronwy could use some caretaking of his own, and want to do something about it.

Daronwy was smoothing the sea-sponge over Methos’ skin, continuing the cleaning he had begun earlier with oil and bronze and linen, before licking Methos to astonished ecstasy, wiping away the last of the ephemeral grit of the most thoroughly settled Quickening that Methos could remember. It was enough, it seemed, to take the sponge from Daronwy’s hand and do the same for him, help him find his way back into his skin from the wider place he had inhabited to be and do what Methos needed, and not what he thought he wanted. Daronwy let his head tip back as Methos slid the sponge over his skin, spread his arms and legs where he sat on the stepped ledge, letting the tiled rim support his neck. When Methos had washed every part of him but his sex, the secret place between his cheeks, Methos urged him up, supporting him, and tended to those intimacies, enjoying the simple, undemanding interest rising in them both.

The caress of the sponge, the cool touch of Methos’ fingers gentle against his entrance were a pleasure, entirely other than the sick sensation the press and threat of Flavius had been. That memory felt very pale and distant, as if Methos subduing Flavius in himself had stripped the miasma of his rancor from Daronwy as well. The fear of that violation was banished completely, and Daronwy realized that yes, he wanted that with Methos as well, to be filled as he had filled, trusting as he had been trusted. Not now, both too spent for any such exercise, but soon. On that thought, and the luxurious touch of Methos cupping his balls, beginning to wash his cock, Daronwy found himself hardening in Methos’ hands.

With a low chuckle, Methos brought their hips together, the sponge floating forgotten in the water, and Daronwy felt the weight and shape of the responsibility he had taken up to be and do what Methos needed ease and retreat like a tide. That part of the evening was done, successful, and he could lay it down. It might be needed again sometime — or simply desired — but it was not for day-to-day, for which Daronwy was glad. Smiling in return, Daronwy kissed Methos’ nose on impulse, and reached for Methos’ firm cheeks, the better to rock and slide together in happy friction.

They braced themselves against the edge and moved in the simple, age-old rhythm of desire, without urgency, without even particular intent, enjoying the pure physicality of touch, of heat, of being together in easy intimacy. Two lovers, loving in the moment. They reached the peak at nearly the same time clinging and clenching for a breathless moment as their cocks pulsed wetly together, and then they both sat down in the bath, weak-kneed and laughing.

When the water cooled they retrieved the sponge and got out, drying each other, talking of inconsequentials. There was a blown-glass feeling to the atmosphere, clear and delicate, but not fragile so much as still settling into new shape. They moved easily in the circle of each other’s arms as they left the bathing chamber and returned to their room.

While they were in the bath, someone had put the room to rights, making the bed up anew and tending the lamps and the fire. There was even a fresh flask of oil. Not that there would be further need for that tonight, but even utterly spent as they both were, Daronwy felt a warmth that promised renewal of desire sooner rather than later, and the tiny quirk of Methos’ lips as their eyes met told him Methos felt the same. They got in the bed together, almost formal in a way, an unspoken acknowledgement of the weight, the as yet unexplored consequences of what the night had brought.

Quietly, easily, they fit themselves together, skin to skin in the embrace of clean linen, bright-dyed wool and warm fur. Outside the narrow window the clear sky was thick with stars. It was the very depth of night, after moonset and hours before the late winter dawn, cold and very still. Not quite the longest night, but near, less than a hand of days away. A longest night they were now assured of sharing.

Methos was asleep nearly as soon as they were settled, held and holding. Daronwy’s mind was still too awake for that, though his body was very happy to rest, still and heavy. An image came to him of two pieces of iron, forged together into something both useful and beautiful: a hinge or a lamp or a sword, resting after the work of the forge. He had asked for Brid’s blessing on the Work, and it seemed it was her fire they had come through; changed but not destroyed. Bride-fire, blade-fire, husband to a sword, who was also a man. However, where ever, when ever: they were wed in truth, and Daronwy promised once again (what I say three times is true) in the witness of the last flicker of the lamp, the glow of the coals in the hearth, the white-burning stars to be there, his own grounded and ecstatic self, however Methos might need him. Now and going forward into time. Where ever that might lead them.

The Song that had begun to form in his mind the first night he and Methos had come together, their wedding night, came to him, and he breathed it out, seal and promise for the future and the now.

 _Lady of Forge, Lady of Fire:  
Bride, Bard, Blade  
By the strength in the Sword,  
the breath in the Word,  
the health in the Herb  
Is this marriage made_

 _Hunt-Lord, Hearth-Lord, Dark-Lord, hear  
Seed-Lord, Scythe-Lord, Green-Lord, hear  
Smith-lord, Stone-Lord, Wind-Lord, hear_

 _By hot-kindled flame,  
By heart-spoken name  
This love avowed  
In time present and in time to come_

 

The whispered song fell into the air, and as he sang it, Daronwy put all his hopes and concern for that unknown day into it, putting it from him, that he might live wholly in the here and now. When the hour did come, the words and will and need of it would be there for him to grasp and take with him into the dark, a seed of light to bring him back to the world, did Arawen and Brid hear his plea as they had this night.

* * *


	15. Final Report

* * *

Leontes son of Xenophilos to Septimus Sixtus, Custos Primus Britanniae —   
Ante diem IV Solsticium Bruma, XI Tiberius,   
Anluan Caius Metellus fought and defeated Flavius Portius Lucullus yester-eve, taking his head in a challenge that lasted no more than five minutes, most of that with Flavius circling around Anluan in an effort to get Anluan to strike first. It was Flavius’ patience that broke first, and after an exchange of less than a dozen blows, Anluan employed a back-handed stroke that took Flavius’ head from his shoulders in one blow. I have the odd impression that Anluan was being merciful. Flavius died like a Roman, sword in hand. The Quickening was of a duration and strength in line with Flavius’ three centuries, and Anluan knew enough to expect it and how to accept it. He must have won a challenge before that we do not have recorded. Daronwy was present for the whole, but I would not recommend recruitment, as his oaths as Bard, and what I judge to be the close relationship between Anluan and himself would likely be a problem, rather than an advantage. Rhian does well enough for us here.

I had Flavius’ body taken to the solarium in the women’s wing, and saw to it that the appropriate rites were or will be done. There are few that mourn him, but he was the master we knew. Anluan’s people were quick to provide the necessities, including a fine length of linen as a shroud. There can be no proper procession of course, far as we are in the country, but I am assured that the other ceremonies will be meticulously observed. I believe the pyre will be in the same place as the challenge, but I do not know who shall receive the urn, as Flavius had not yet named even an unofficial heir, whom he would become in good time. Even at the last, he did not accept that he was defeated, and I understand Anluan to be having some difficulty settling the Quickening. Three hundred years and a double hand of challenges won is not inconsequential for a youngster.

From what is reported by the household, Anluan was put in a position where even a mortal Briton would have challenged, Flavius apparently struck Daronwy, a very serious offense among the tribes. They value their Bards as nigh equal to their kings, and Daronwy is a prince of his tribe, as well. I expect that Anluan’s position and influence, despite his relative youth, will protect and insulate him from any serious legal consequences. I suspect, under the circumstances, that he may claim the death as justifiable under Roman law, and required by local law and custom to keep the peace.

Should Anluan take that tack, it is likely he will end up in possession of Flavius’ affairs — lands, dependents and offices all. If that is the case, then I will be more than happy to continue to report as senior observer, especially if Anluan chooses to spend time in both places.

* * *


	16. Starlight

* * *

The lights of Los Angeles spread out like a carpet of stars from the balcony of Adam’s hotel suite. The real stars were not visible, between the high haze and the city lights, though Methos knew they were there, in patterns and shapes that had changed only a little over the long years of his life. It had been a different storm that brought him here, into the realm of the glitterati, stars of a different sort. The blizzard that brought him Daronwy had been fierce, but in retrospect, in the broader scale of things, fairly small in the world’s terms, however large it had been in his, their, life. The tempest that had swept him into Adam’s life was of another order entirely, but they had yet to see what the greater consequences for their own lives would be this time.

But this was _this time_. They had been given a further chance, another spin on the wheel. Methos no longer doubted that Adam was Daronwy, in every way that mattered. And that furthermore, that established, it was a lesser thing to what they might be and build together in this present day, now. Of course it would not be easy, or simple. But it had been neither easy nor simple before, either. It was enough for this night that they had found each other again, reconnected.

Methos settled himself more contentedly against the drift of pillows and drew his glance from the view beyond the window down to the amazing and formidable presence in his arms. Neither sleep nor a king-size bed could make Adam look small, for all he lay like a great cat against Methos’ side, limbs tangling comfortably together. Of course they had ended up in bed together, making love. They had talked as well, dipping randomly into the immensity of things they had to talk about, hardly skimming the surface. As much love and delight (and there had been a quantity of delight — Adam was as ardent and inspired a lover as he was a performer, a quality that would never get old or stale) as connection and reconnection, renewal and new steps forward. Methos was piercingly aware of how lucky he was, they were, and he vowed to hold fast to what they had found and begun the work of building again.

In the glimmering of the city in the small hours of the night, the memory of moon and sun and starlight, Methos leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to Adam’s temple, and murmured in a language unheard in millennia, reaffirming that ancient oath, “Thou hast my soul, whether it is mine or another's, my breath and blood and the lightning in it, seed and bone, sacred will and sacred word. My love and my beloved, in all the lands there are or shall be, together or parted, in this unimaginable time present or wonder yet to come."

Adam did not wake — Methos had not wanted him to — but the words, the depth and sincerity of them registered, and he moved to wrap himself more completely around Methos, laying his head in the hollow of Methos shoulder. His hair brushed Methos’ lips like an answering kiss, a promise in turn.

  
_Starlight  
I will be chasing the starlight  
Until the end of my life …._   


* * *


	17. Notes and Lists

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[Fic master-post on Dreamwidth](http://lferion.dreamwidth.org/214537.html)   
[Fic master-post on LiveJournal](http://lferion.livejournal.com/216962.html)

Art master-post: [Art by Glambini](http://glambini.livejournal.com/8239.html)

 **About the playlists:** Music was very important in writing this. Once upon a time, download links lead to three zipped folders, each with a playlist that works on it’s own, and is one third of the master playlist. Text files in each folder give the order of both long and short lists. I attempted to make it so if you put all the files together, they will arrange themselves in the right order for the long list. I no longer have access to that service, unfortunately.

Full lists

**Bard and Warrior**

01\. The Bard & The Warrior — Various Artists — Celtic Dreams  
04\. For Your Entertainment — Adam Lambert — For Your Entertainment  
07\. Against The Wind — Máire Brennan — Women Of The World: Celtic  
10\. Mad World (Acoustic - edit) — Adam Lambert — Adam Lambert live at iheartradio  
13\. Loreley — Blackmore's Night — Ghost Of A Rose  
16\. Starlight (Acoustic) — Adam Lambert — GMA Concert Series  
19\. Viviana — An Triskell, Hervé et Pol Quefféléant — La Harpe Celtique  
22\. Ivory Tower — Blackmore's Night — Ghost Of A Rose  
25\. Crimson Flow — Will — Pearl Of Great Price  
28\. Procession of Treasures — Richard Burmer — Treasures Of The Saints  
31\. The March Of The King Of Laois — The Chieftains — The Chieftains 3  
34\. The Horseman — Cast In Bronze — The Voyage  
37\. Epilogue — Will — Pearl Of Great Price  
40\. La Berceuse De Muffe — Grey Larsen & Malcolm Dalglish — Thunderhead  
43\. Wartime Lullaby — Moonrise — Songs Of Love, Magic And Other Mysteries  
46\. Aftermath (Live at Glam Nation) — Adam Lambert — Acoustic Live! - EP  
49\. The Forgotten Season — Richard Burmer — On The Third Extreme  


* * *

**Raven in the Snow**

02\. The Circle — Blackmore's Night — Secret Voyage  
05\. Cheiron — Corvus Corax — Seikilos  
08\. Wake Skadi — Hagalaz' Runedance — Volven  
11\. Qadukka-I-Mayyas — Jesse Cook — Nomad  
14\. Dulcis Amor — Qntal — Ozymandias (Qntal IV)  
17\. Sheep Under The Snow / Welsh Morris — Robin Williamson — Winter's Turning  
20\. Praeludium: "O Langueo" — Corvus Corax & Bernd Fabuljan — Cantus Buranus - Das Orgelwerk  
23\. Ring Of Fire [Glam Nation Live] — Adam Lambert — Glam Nation Live  
26\. Boadicea — Enya — The Celts  
29\. Whataya Want from Me (Live at ENERGY Berlin 103.4) — Adam Lambert — Acoustic Live! - EP  
32\. Knights of Cydonia — Muse — Black Holes and Revelations  
35\. Saltatio Mortis a.d. MM — Corvus Corax — Mille Anni Passi Sunt  
38\. Shadow Of The Storm — Neil Marsh — Time Rift: The Soundtrack And Other Temporal Anomalies  
41\. The One I Love — R.E.M. — Eponymous  
44\. The Mighty One — Máire Brennan — Women Of The World: Celtic  
47\. Stella Splendens — Qntal — Nihil  
50\. A Raven in the Snow — Jeff Johnson & Brian Dunning — Celtic Christmas III  


* * *

**Fire, Stone, Steel**

03\. Abbotts Bromley Horn Dance/In Winters Shadow — Martin Simpson/Jessica Radcliffe/Lisa Ekstrom — Beautiful Darkness  
06\. Storm (edit) — Cirque Du Soleil — Kà  
09\. Pompeji — Camouflage — Voices & Images  
12\. Qui Nous Demaine — Corvus Corax — Venus Vina Musica  
15\. Jump Through The Fire — Oysterband — Here I Stand  
18\. Staines Morris — John Roberts & Tony Barrand — Mellow With Ale from the Horn  
21\. Glastonbury Tor — Various Artists — Avalon, the Dawning  
24\. Hymnus Apollon — Corvus Corax — Seikilos  
27\. Winter — Qntal — Silver Swan - V  
30\. In A Stone Circle — Ian Anderson — Divinities: Twelve Dances With God  
33\. Pop Goes The Camera (MySpace Version) — Adam Lambert — Demos  
36\. Swordplay — Harry Gregson-Williams & London Session Orchestra — Kingdom Of Heaven  
39\. Broken Open (edit) — Adam Lambert — Live at Fantasy Springs  
42\. The Ecstasy Of Gold — Metallica — S&M [Disc 1]  
45\. White Island — Al Petteway — Midsummer Moon  
48\. The Humbling River — Puscifer — "C" Is for (Please Insert Sophomoric G***a Reference Here) - EP  
51\. Fomarian Towers — The Paul Haslem Consort — New Celtic Moon

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End file.
